Every Second Monday

Sadness, Single Motherhood and the Power of Words to Save Us

Every second Monday, for so many years now, I drive my children back to their father, and I return home to an empty house.

Every second Monday this catches me by surprise — the same way I seem to forget, even after almost 18 years, that I am somehow responsible for feeding these humans of mine every single night and a whole host of other adult-type things that shouldn’t slip my mind so easily.

As if this hasn’t happened on countless second Monday’s stretching back so very many years.

Every second Monday, I am hit by a low that catches me off guard and sinks me deep.

Writing and mothering are the two spaces in my life where I do not question my call. But I never intended to be a writer. That was an accident (a beautiful, happy, frustrating, impossible accident). I always wanted to be a mother. Wanted it with the deepest of knowing and fullness of intention.

Yes, I luxuriate in the quiet time and the lack of siblings battles and the chances to work late into the night or go out and be social with my friends. But, for me, to be without my children is to experience a confusing sort of dissonance.

This was never the way it was supposed to be.