Summer Blues, Part One

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It’s that time of year again: summer possession. Tiny visits his dad for two, two week stints, every summer. This is the first round, and I’m already dreading the second. I don’t look forward to summer, and, although this is the fourth summer of being divorced, I still can’t get past the, “this is not fair,” mentality.

It’s not fair that my son shuttles between homes, which is ironic to say, since divorce allowed me to become myself, again. Divorce allows me to not live with someone who never understood the idea of marriage as a partnership, and not the World of Domination and Control. Divorce also gives my son a dad, because, without it, the emotional bond between my son and his father would not be there.

But, divorce gives me oodles of sad, bleak, dead space. Therefore, I fill it. I fill my time with projects, family, and activities. Anything I can think of to fill the time, I work hard to accomplish.

Minus the writing part, and I apologize for that.

It’s hard to write while depressed. For some people that works, but, for me? I’m sitting here thinking, “I miss my kid. I miss my kid. I miss my kid.”

Which is why I have been absent from writing for the last week. I pull out my computer, open it up, stare at the blank page, close my computer, and shove it under a pillow. Every day for a week it’s been the same pattern. Not only do I not write, but I do not think about writing, which is strange, for me.

During the first few days that Tiny goes to his dad, I find myself to be the most active. I am painting my son’s room, putting away all the things I lovingly decorated his room with before he was born, and replacing it with new items that speak of him. The entire time I’m painting, I’m thinking of how excited he will be–please, please let him be excited–and how I can’t wait for him to come home.

And then I look at the day, and the time, and sink into a vat of despair. I’m a mom; it’s what I do. All this space to myself, without the rambunctious antics of a sword-wielding superhero, is depressing. My house is devoid of life; therefore I’m devoid of life.

Coworkers are noticing that I’m not quite “me.” I stay up too late, hugging my son’s favorite stuffy–Mr. Kitty. He’s in my lap right now, because I’m forcing myself to write my emotions, and I need moral support.

Don’t judge.

Stuffies give moral support. Ask any tiny human, and they’ll back me up on this.

Totally will.

I miss my kid. I miss my kid. I miss my kid.

At work, I am asked why I look, “So chill,” with the follow up question being, “Are you sick?”

Another coworker mentions that I’m being, “Serious,” to which I reply, “What? I’m a serious person.”

His laughter brightens my mood, and, for a few hours, I live in the present, forget my depression, and forget that I won’t see my tiny human for another week. But, just as I’m explaining to a doctor that I’m surprising my son with a brand new, Iron Man themed room for when he comes home, he replies, “You get all this time for yourself? How exciting is that! Are you partying hard, and enjoying your free time?”

No, I’m cuddling Mr. Kitty, shoving junk food into my mouth–without care for the fat cells bursting forth, and watching Sex in the City on a loop from my DVR, because I cannot bring myself to change the station off of Garfield.

Not to mention, why is Garfield always on when I turn on the TV? It’s like that’s the only show this station plays. Every day, Garfield. Morning, noon, night, whenever.

Garfield.

I’m in the freaking Twilight Zone.

Just as I explain in Free Time, Revisited, I am not “me” without my tiny human. From the moment he came into my life, he became my life. He is light, and joy, and spontaneity, and death glares when restrained. He is bubbles, and lollipops, and “Mommy, can you snuggle me?” He is reckless abandon, and giggles, and questions that never end.

So, when he goes to his dad, my world stops moving, and I’m engulfed in deafening silence.

I miss my kid. I miss my kid. I miss my kid.

Which is why I abandon writing when he leaves. It seems like the perfect time to write, right? He’s gone, I am surrounded by endless quiet, and all this free time to write, and write, and write. The first year he left, I did use that time for writing. I remember being so mad that my son wasn’t home, I knocked out three chapters in one night. The book, “A Soul Divided,” begins with a scene in a marriage counselor’s office, with the female protagonist feeling radiating anger at her husband.

All because my son wasn’t home.

At the time, my use of anger for writing was a source of inspiration.

Now, in Year Four of summer possession, I’m just sad. There are no words to write, and I don’t feel like pushing myself past my funk, because I think the resulting composition would be utter crap on a stick, with bananas.

… Like this post.

I miss my kid. I miss my kid. I miss my kid.

Tiny’s room is nearly complete. There are curtains to be hung, wall decor to mount, and toys to sort–and by sort, I mean trash. … Wait, did I say that in print? Ummm … uh, … so … . By the time he walks through the door, his room will be complete. The sun will shine, the world will sprout rainbows, and God will start smiling again.

I stand by my claim.

Hopefully, in this coming week, I will find the words, or inspiration of some kind. I want to start working on my novel, again. I want to create at least two more posts for Moms Magazine by the end of the month. I want to be inspired, to find inspiration, and to write in bright, bubbly fervor.

But, for today, I think I’ll wallow in a cup of coffee, snuggle Mr. Kitty, and wait for my son to come home, because I miss my kid.

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