It’s been almost five years since my marriage ended, but the 50-50 custody arrangement is still unsettling. At first, it was necessary and therapeutic, even thrilling, to be granted days and days of kid-free time. It was one of the few things that compensated for the overall awfulness of the divorce experience. Things have settled down a lot since then, and my daughters and I have adapted to the established rhythm of the routine (two days on, two off, five days on, five off), though the transitions aren’t always entirely smooth. What I’m acutely aware of now is how, as time passes, I’m more and more estranged from my children’s other life.

When my daughters, now 12 and 16, go for their five-day stretch with their dad, here is what happens in my world:

• I breathe a huge sigh of relief, do some neck rolls, and look forward to not having to think about nutritious meals or deal with the sibling bickering and mother-daughter drama that regularly ensue when they’re with me. Then I feel guilty and worry that something bad will happen to them as punishment for wanting them gone.

• I clean and prettify the house, and it stays that way. I put away my younger daughter’s complicated setup of Playmobil or Calico Critters that consumes the entire rug in our TV room and replace it with my exercise mat so I can do workout videos in that space. (I also forage in the girls’ room and toss whatever strikes my fancy. Don’t tell them.)

• If I’m dating someone, I rapidly morph from frazzled mom to sizzling weekend lover. If I’m not, I distract myself with ambitious organizing projects or lengthy TV-series binges on my laptop.



• I am, by default, the prettiest girl in the house, and feel younger, sexier and more carefree than I really am. When I look in the mirror, I think, “Damn, you look good for a woman of your age.” (I might even blast a Barry White song from me to me.)

• As the days go by, I start to miss my kids and become painfully, acutely aware that they are living a whole chunk of their lives without me, far away. Weekends and vacations with their dad are spent with his girlfriend and her sons, who live in another state. Sometimes the girls call me, sobbing that they miss me, and sometimes I call them and they seem annoyed, as if I’ve interrupted something. Either one makes me feel bad, sad and left out.

When the girls return after five long days away:

• We hug and tell each other how much we missed each other. My younger daughter talks nonstop. My older daughter lets out whatever she’s been holding in. She cries, or gets irrationally furious at me, or hugs me a little too often and too hard.

• The relatively beautiful, static physical world that I’ve created for myself is violently disrupted with coats and backpacks, iPod earphones, day-of-the-week panties, Yummy Breakfast key chains and socks (all mateless) strewn mindlessly on the couch, the floor, the table, the countertops, everywhere. At first it’s unsettling, but then I surrender to the chaos, beautiful in its own way.

• My older daughter activates her freaky radar that immediately, and often angrily, registers any tiny little thing I’ve acquired in her absence. (“OMG, you got a new toothbrush?!?” Betrayal!)

• I am instantly demoted to least-pretty person in the house and seriously consider a life without mirrors. When I catch a glimpse of myself, I think: “Whoa, you look like hell,” as I am now engulfed by the relentlessly firm, smooth, glossy-haired perfection of my girls.

• I see the metaphorical lipstick on my daughters’ collars, the little items that prove they’ve been having an affair with another mother and her boys: tote bags with the name of the town where she lives, fart jokes, hand-me-downs (is there anything that more blatantly cries “family”?) and a revived enthusiasm for Harry Potter. Their innocent infidelity can inspire in me a jealous fury worthy of Greek tragedy. I force myself to sweetly inquire about their other life, to try hard to be happy that they’re making new connections with decent people.

• Any quirks the girls have absorbed from their dad (a way of whistling, certain turns of phrase and points of view) are suddenly thrown into relief; Some induce nostalgia, some make me cringe. (The older one and her dad, for example, make the exact same icky noises when they eat an apple.) I wonder if they, similarly, infuse his world with my once-familiar little habits.

As we get to Day 4 of the stretch, my nerves, reinforced by the days without them, begin their bimonthly fray, even as it hurts to see them go. My daughters pack their bags, I send them on their way, and the cycle repeats.