“Well,” they say, “at least you get a break!”
Full-time, year-round moms refer to this when my daughter goes to her dad’s. It’s true. I get a break.
Recently, I had five days off from school, work, and parenting. I gallivanted through the deserts of southern Utah. My whole demeanor changed. I easily fell into the essence of myself. I wrote, lived out of a backpack, and read prose. I drank whiskey with my coffee while watching the sun rise. I became my own, philosophical a priori. The former self.
I’m genuinely grateful for the ability to reconnect with this person. But it came at a cost. Years of court battles, arguing through lawyers, and spending Christmas mornings alone.
I’ve been told I have it easy, being a single mom. Even that I’m not a real mom for getting this freedom.
But this almost six-year-old girl of mine continuously reassures me. I am.