What I Need
Tate goes back and forth between my house and her father’s. Because we’re both lucky and able to communicate, we’ve always worked well together to create a schedule of back and forth that feels good for everyone (versus having had to follow an arbitrary court ruling).
Tate’s wellbeing and happiness has always been our mutual goal.
*
Middle school has just begun. Though she’s quite sophisticated and mature, a product of being the single daughter of a single mom, she’s still young and actually started middle school at age ten (soon to be eleven).
All the changes at that age are no joke. She went from having one teacher all day every day, who knows her well, that she looped with for two straight years. To having nine, very different teachers.
She went from being in one classroom all day to having a locker, a very short passing time and eight periods a day. This alone is a lot to adjust to.
Not to mention, the rigor of the isolated subjects, going from no homework to nightly work, a much bigger school, learning her way around, meeting all new friends, managing time and a changing body, etc.
The elementary Tate would’ve fallen onto the kitchen floor and sprawled herself out the second she walked in from the garage, crying, every day the way she did the first couple months of Kindergarten and first grade.
Tate today is taking it in stride but at the same time, so worn out I can see the tired dimple that comes underneath her right eye when she’s WIPED, from 100 yards away when I pick her up in the afternooons.
I hear her talk in her sleep about homework and needing more space and old friends.
We cut back her extracurriculars in anticipation of this but still, it’s just lot. A lot to do, take in, process and manage. It’s a lot on her system both socially and emotionally, let alone the ‘brainache’ she talks of every morning when she’s rolling out of bed, unsure she can go back and do it again, all day long…
I know she misses the art of her grade school, woven through all subjects. The tightness of her community of classmates, she’d grown up with since they were five. The long recesses, nature hikes, gardens, silliness, read-aloud, knitting and singing.
Who wouldn’t?
I watch her, the empath and mother I am, and try not to take on the stress of all the new she’s facing and yet, I feel it anyway.
I know how well she’s coping. And still, I notice every time I tell her it’s time to pack to change houses, her already heavy shoulders fall.
I acknowledge, “Ach, I see you. I know you love being at dad’s, but it probably feels like a lot to have to pack yourself up and think of all the things you don’t want to forget - textbooks, mascara, both of your favorite sneakers, your practice soccer jersey, earrings, your iPad …”
“Yeah,” she sighs. “It really feels like a lot. I know it’s not, but I just can’t even think about it with everything else in my head…” Her knees buckle and now she’s lying face down on her bed.
“Want me to help you pack, sweetheart?”
“Yeah, actually, Mama, please. Just maybe pick a bag for me and then read me things off my packing list and I’ll hand them to you to put in, would that work?”
“Of course, baby. I’m sorry you have to go back and forth just to have time with both your parents. That must be really hard and probably feels unfair…”
“Thanks, Mom …”
After a few weeks of these repeat experiences, I call her dad. “Hey, just a heads up, Tate of course wants to come, she’s just feeling so worn out and the idea of packing to go back and forth is weighing on her. I wonder what we might do to make it a bit easier.”
He and I brainstorm about keeping some clothes at his house and other small but creative ideas. I hang up encouraged we may be able to at least be of some support, still guilty her dad and I aren’t together in one house, to erase this whole stressor for her all together. Sigh.
*
This week, I stand with her in front of the calendar and we have a look at what days hold which of her commitments, which nights she’ll be at her dad’s, the same routine we embark upon every Sunday evening…
She turns to me and tells me, shaking her head back and forth, voice matter-of-fact, “I can’t do it this week. I just can’t. It’s not about Dad, Mama, I just need to stay home for a whole week straight. It’s just what I need.”
Her eyebrows rise and half her mouth, “Is that okay?”
I tell her I think so, that I’ll check with her father. Luckily, he has learned to listen to her much the way I have and it’s no big deal. We come up with ways they can see each other and he can help out and feel involved in her life this week that don’t require her to switch houses.
The week feels more steady; she’s productive and focused on getting more rest.
It’s Thursday night. Tate comes in to say goodnight. I’m already curled up with my hot water bottle, working my yarn. She sits on the side of my bed like she’s got more to say than sleep tight so I remove my spectacles and wait.
“I’m so glad you and dad are my parents.”
My heart blushes the way only her gratitude can make it.
“So many parents can’t even stand to talk to each other - about anything. You know, parents who aren’t together? And there’s no way they’d allow a change like what I asked for. And, well, I just want you to know how thankful I am. I told you guys what I needed and you let me.”
“Ohhh, darling. We both could see it helped this week to have a break from the back and forth. I’m thankful you’re so in tune with what you need and able to tell us. Thank y-o-u, for that.”
Though it’s been pretty much no hugs since elementary school graduation, she opens her arms and lets her head fall onto my shoulder.
I hold her, not sure what’s sweeter - the way she’s taught us the value of trusting her or the fact that tonight, I actually get a delicious, albeit now a bit awkward and sideways, Tate hug.
I hold on until she annoyingly complains, “You’re breathing on my neck and your breath stinks; you should brush your teeth again. Night, Mama.”
