Mr L has been working away from home for the better part of this year, it’s a situation that will likely be ongoing for the forseeable future. Most weeks he leaves as the birds are rising on a Monday morning and arrives back home, hopefully late on Thursday but more often than not it’s on a Friday.
It’s not easy.
We squeeze our lives into the edges of the week. Trying to make the most of each weekend, to make the bits we have together perfect. We’ve lived this way before, 10 years or so ago and it’s easier this time around. The children are older, I have my business, the week goes quickly. But there are definitely moments when it makes each of us ache a little and let’s face it, even the most perfect of families would surely struggle to make every weekend perfect.
Sometimes the tension builds, it’s hard for Mr L, he is away from home, living out of a suitcase, working so very hard and faced with many hours of driving at either end of the week. It’s hard for the two teens in the household, especially the man-child, it’s just him and the dog to wave a male flag in the sea of oestrogen and the dog really isn’t that much help.
It’s hard for me too. I struggle with the solo parenting, making all the wrong decisions by myself with no one to blame. I work alone so sometimes I simply haven’t spoken to an adult for days on end, Mr L arrives home, exhausted from speaking to adults all week and then has to listen to my stream of consciousness.
But here’s the thing, the thing to remember, the thought to treasure, the kernal we hold on to: it makes you so darned grateful for what you have, a regular reminder not to take love for granted, a virtual nudge to pause every so often and take joy in the small moments. To make the very most of all that living squeezed around the edges of life.