The longest that I’ve ever been apart from my son is about a week.
When I was traveling for work, I would leave on Monday and return on Thursday or Friday. While I was gone, we would call or FaceTime, anything to stay connected. Once, for a trip to San Diego, he snuck a small stuffed dalmatian into my luggage, so I sent him pictures of the adventures that my traveling companion had. The plane, the hotel, a restaurant, the beach.
Even then, he would sometimes come with me on trips, especially back to Colorado, but also to Seattle, New York, and Las Vegas. I think back now on how lucky we were to be together on those trips and to have those shared experiences.
A few years ago, he attended a camp hosted by our local Epilepsy Foundation affiliate. That was the most disconnected I had been from him, dropping him off on a Sunday and not seeing him again until camp ended on Friday. The first year was rough, partly from the separation but partly from worry about his seizures, even though he was in a camp for kids with seizures, surrounded by doctors, nurses, and staff who volunteered their time to give children like my son this experience. The second year at camp was easier, but it still wasn’t easy.
Last fall was the first time I had put him on a plane without me. He was traveling to see his mother. It was only for a few days, and the change in family dynamics was still new, so the feeling of distance was intertwined with the realization of a different future where this would be the shape of things now.
It was repeated over winter break when he spent Christmas with his mother. A longer stretch apart at a time that historically brought more family together.
As I write this, my son is preparing for another trip to visit his mother.
This time, he’ll be gone for six weeks.
For the past year, we’ve built our new routines in our new life. The logistics of work, school, and appointments. Managing medications and filling the pill containers every Sunday morning while I drink a cup of coffee. The dogs piling on his bed to wake him up every morning, with me not far behind. Playing basketball in the driveway after school, and video games before dinner. All of it built around his presence. And now there’s this stretch ahead where the house will be quiet in a way it hasn’t been before.
He understands how long he’ll be gone. He’s excited about it, too, which is the right thing and I’m glad for it. His mom’s place has a pool. They’re going to Colorado to visit family. He’ll get to do things he doesn’t get to do here, and he’ll get time with her that he needs and deserves. I’m going to back off and let them have that. Whatever it looks like in reality, right now he’s looking forward to it.
I want that for him. I do. And I’ll miss him every day of it.
The first morning will have its own weight. There’s somewhere I need to be, something tied to the process of how we got here, and I’ll go do that and then come home to a house that’s already started its six weeks.
The plan is to fill the time. We’ll still text and FaceTime. We’ll still play Fortnite and Rocket League online. That part doesn’t have to change. But the house will still be quieter than I’m used to. I’ll lean into work. Get the yard projects done that I’ve been putting off, because spending time with him always felt like a better use of an afternoon. Spend more time with my goddaughter. Let the dogs fill some of the space he leaves behind, which they will, because that’s what they do.
I don’t have a clean way to think about it. He’s excited, and I’m glad, and I’m dreading it, and I know it’ll be fine, and I know six weeks is a long time. All of that is true at the same time.
This is the shape of things now. The separation brought a new geography to his life, and six weeks is part of that.
I’ve known it was coming.
Knowing doesn’t make it smaller.