We've developed a little ritual. Before we head back to Mum's on Sunday afternoons, we have to say goodbye. First we have a lie-in, then we have a leisurely breakfast, and then we tidy up together. When we're done, we gather on the sofa to read and cuddle. Everyone then shares what they've particularly enjoyed that week.
Sometimes we make plans for the next one. I feel very sad then, but of course I only let it show in a controlled way; because I don't want you to think you need to look after me. You've surely got enough on your plate.
I think it's good for your routine that the last day ends like this. Slowly, in stages – without having to talk about it too far in advance. Of course, the week with Mummy is just as good as the one with Daddy; there's no doubt about that. But I can tell that the transition to a different world, a new routine, is never easy for you.
The man from the separation counselling service had called it «living with one's bags packed» – and advised us, if our work schedules allowed, to make the changes on a weekly rather than a daily basis. The children needed a day to settle in and a day to say goodbye, he said. So far, I'd had no reason to doubt this man's judgement.
Building anticipation
This moment is one of the hardest parts of the separation, though I only realised that quite late on. But I mustn't be too sad; it's my job to look after you. I'll tell you what to expect when you're with Mummy, to get you excited about it. How many people will be waiting for you there, who miss you terribly too. How many lovely moments lie ahead, and what makes Mummy so special.
I'm talking about H. and how well he'll build Lego with you lot. It's not exactly easy, but the bloke from the relationship counselling service said you've just got to be able to swallow your pride, even if it really hurts. It's only now that I've begun to understand, to some extent, what that means: being a father. In those other moments. I came up with that myself, and of all the rubbish ideas I've had in my life, that was probably the best one.
I don't like being in my flat the moment you've left. It gets very quiet then, as if all life has drained out of it.
«It must be lovely to have a week off,» say my friends who don't practise shared custody. I used to think so too, but that's not how it is. Everyone I know who practises shared custody does it like this: one week alone with the children and one week of working double shifts to catch up on everything that's piled up at work. So far, I haven't come across any exceptions.
Of course, the air feels milder when you button up your jacket in the evening and go out again; it feels somehow promising. But for me, that feeling always lasts exactly until I get back home and see your toys. Then I stand there for a while, and then I slowly close the door. I don't like being in my flat the moment you've left. It's very quiet then, as if all life has drained away.
Not a reward, but an escape
I've also developed a little ritual. Just for myself, once you've gone. I tidy everything up, and sometimes I hoover the whole place and pick up the remaining toys. I give the flat a thorough clean and then close the door to your bedroom, to tell myself that it's time for a different life now. To make the transition from a very full life to a much quieter one. Then, when evening comes, I meet up with my friends.
At first I thought it was a kind of reward, but now I know it's an escape. That the flat has to stop smelling a bit less of you before I can come back. It's the sight of your beds that breaks my heart, not because I can't deal with my own feelings like an adult or be on my own. But because I know I won't hear from you for a week now. That I won't know what you're up to.
Of course, I could send you voice messages – and I do. But at the same time, I don't want you to feel like you have to worry about me or hold back in any way. You're allowed to forget about me a bit over the next few weeks – in the sense that I'm there in the back of your minds, but you're actively enjoying yourselves elsewhere without a care in the world.
I'll always be there for you; that's one thing that's set in stone. And that's the only feeling I want to convey. It's also a matter of respect for Mum – not constantly pulling you out of your own little world. That would be selfish.
A living hell
The worst thing about this kind of separation from you is that both Mum and Dad are forced to have fifty per cent less time. To give up half the time we spend with you. Not because we're possessive or selfish. But because there are things you miss out on that you can only miss out on once, and then never again.
I suppose nothing could be worse for parents. Perhaps it's hell. A little hell, mind you – a bit colder and with a mobile hanging from the ceiling – but hell all the same. We won't be seeing each other at Easter this year. It's Mum's week. I haven't been able to watch you hunting for eggs or see if you find any. I've missed seeing your eyes light up.
Take your time with the developmental leaps; I want to see them too.
I'm sitting here on this bloody Maybachufer in Berlin, watching old videos on my phone instead – of you running through the garden. A whole new way of being strong for the kids. It takes discipline. I know that H. is building the new Lego set with you now. I know that Mummy is stroking your heads and saying «Goodnight». I feel as if a piece of the mainland has been torn away.
Last week, my youngest son came home and said he could ride a bike now. He learnt how to do it during Mum's week.
I'd love to say, «Don't grow up so fast.» Take your time with those developmental leaps; I want to be there for them too. But at the same time, I'm so happy – for you, for Mum. Sincerely, deeply and honestly. I suppose that's all I can do right now. Before I put away my mobile, which shows your beaming faces, I write: «Take care, you two» – and «Happy Easter».
I know I won't get an answer. It's only when you're constantly saying goodbye that you realise how wonderful it is to have children. And I suppose there's something good in that, too.
