(there are things we explain to our children in beautiful words, just to try to make something that should never have to hurt them a little less painful)
On Saturday, I took my children to a party. We played so much. There were bouncy castles, face painting, balloons, football, drawings, a friend nearby, ice creams. There were races, laughter, little hands pulling me over to see one more thing, one more game, one more something that simply couldn’t wait. A full day. The kind where you get home exhausted, but with your heart overflowing with love.
On Sunday, they spent the day with their dad and came back in the late afternoon. We had a picnic on the living room floor while watching Portugal’s match. And I couldn’t have asked for better company to watch the game. My two boys were right there, getting excited about every move, celebrating the goals, making our living room the best place in the world. It really was lovely.
After half-time, I went to get them ready for bed. And I told my eldest that he would be sleeping at his dad’s for the next two nights. He carried on brushing his teeth. He carried on celebrating the national team’s victory. He didn’t say anything. It didn’t seem like a big deal. Until, a little while later, he came over to me.
– ” Mum, can you call me tomorrow?”
– “Of course I can, sweetheart. And you can call Mummy whenever you want, too.”
– “And on Tuesday? Can you call me then, too?”
I repeated my answer. Of course I could. Of course we could call each other. Of course Mummy was always there. And then he said:
-“I want you to call me because when I’m with Dad, I miss Mummy so much.”
And I hugged him. I hugged him and told him what I always tell him. That missing someone is a good thing. That it means we love each other very much. That we only miss the people we love. That there is only longing where there is love. And that here, in this house, between us, there is so much love. I tried to make something beautiful out of something that, in truth, has very little beauty in it. Or perhaps it does. Perhaps missing someone really is one of the most beautiful ways of understanding just how much someone matters to us. Perhaps it is lovely to know that we are loved like that. That we are missed. That someone, even when they are far away, thinks of us and longs for our embrace. But that wasn’t what I wanted my five-year-old to be learning.
I didn’t want him to have to learn to turn absence into beautiful words. I didn’t want him to have to find an explanation for how much he misses me. I didn’t want him to have to get used to missing me when he is with his dad. And yet, he is beginning to understand. He is beginning to understand how this life works. The days he is with me. The days he is with his dad. The nights he falls asleep in one person’s arms and the nights he falls asleep in another’s.
He is beginning to understand that when he is in one place, the other still exists. That he can be having fun, playing, laughing, enjoying the time he spends with his dad and still miss his mum. And perhaps that is what hurts me the most. Knowing that he can be happy and miss me at the same time. That one thing doesn’t cancel out the other. That he can love being with his dad and want to be with me. And vice versa. That he doesn’t have to choose one feeling, or hide one to protect the other.
After telling me that, he didn’t mention it again. And neither did I. Instead, I told him a story. I let myself fall asleep between him and his brother, with one arm on each side, wrapped around each of those two little bodies. And I stayed there. Thinking about how much I miss them, too, when they aren’t with me. About how much I miss hearing their footsteps around the house, the endless questions, the little interruptions, the things only they say and that no one else would ever say in quite the same way.
Thinking that what I told him might actually be true. That missing someone comes from love. That there is something beautiful about knowing that we matter to someone enough to be missed. But that, if I could choose, I would rather he didn’t have to miss me like this. I would rather he could have his mum and dad without that meaning he has to spend days without one of us. I would rather he didn’t have to learn so young how to manage the absence, count the days, ask if he can call tomorrow, if he can call on Tuesday, too. I would rather he didn’t have to think about any of it. Because, without a doubt, no child this young should have to miss a lap that belongs to them. A lap that is there, that loves them, that waits for them, but that, in that moment, isn’t there.
And no good mum or dad should have to go through this either. No parent should have to hear their child ask if they can call tomorrow. And then on Tuesday. Because they are already anticipating how much they will miss them. No parent should have to hear from such a little child that they miss them when they are with their other parent.
Not because the other parent isn’t important. Not because I don’t want my children to be happy with their dad. Not because I don’t know they need him, too. But because hearing this gets to us. It touches a place we don’t quite know how to explain. A place where there are no arguments, no agreements, no schedules that can help us. A place where we are simply mums. And dads. Where we hear our child say they miss us and all we want is to be able to hold them until they stop missing us.
And it isn’t good. It isn’t good knowing that he misses me. It isn’t good imagining that, when I’m not there, there may be moments when he wants to be with me and can’t. It isn’t good realising that, no matter how much I tell him he can call, a phone call isn’t a hug. That hearing his mum’s voice isn’t the same as having his mum there.
And no beautiful explanation can change that. There are things adults can understand. That a separation happens. That there are two homes. That there are schedules, routines, agreed days. That parents continue to love their children even when they no longer live together. But a child shouldn’t have to find meaning in all of this. They shouldn’t have to learn that love is also lived at a distance. That you can love someone and not have them close by. That you can want a cuddle and have to wait until the next day. They shouldn’t have to be so grown-up to understand something that, even for us, still hurts so much.
And perhaps that is why I tell him that missing someone is beautiful. Because I want him to know there is nothing wrong with feeling what he feels. That he doesn’t have to be ashamed of missing his mum when he is with his dad. That he isn’t hurting anyone by wanting to be with me. That he can say he misses me, that he can cry, that he can want my arms around him. And vice versa.
That I will always listen to him. But if I could, I would spare him this. Not missing the people he loves. That is part of life. We can’t promise our children they will never miss someone. I would spare him this kind of missing someone. The longing that comes from a life he didn’t choose. The longing for a mum who hasn’t died, who hasn’t left, who is still right there, just a few kilometres away, but who can’t be there every day, every night, every moment he needs her.
And I would spare myself, too. Because no mum should have to learn to live with missing her children. No mum should have to lie down in a bed without them and know that, in that moment, there is a hug she cannot give. No mum should have to get used to hearing these words and responding with all the calm in the world, when inside all she wants to say is that she misses them, too. That it hurts, too. That she wishes things were different, too.
But I don’t say it. Because he doesn’t need to carry my longing as well. He needs to know he can feel his own. That he can love his dad and his mum. That he can be happy in one home and miss the other. That he doesn’t have to look after the adults’ feelings. And I need to keep telling him that everything is okay. Even when it isn’t.
That night, I fell asleep between the two of them, with one arm around each. And I kept thinking that perhaps one day missing someone really will be just that. Something beautiful. A way of measuring love, of understanding the place someone occupies in our lives. But right now, for him, it is also a question: “Mum, can you call me tomorrow?” And I can. I can call him tomorrow. And on Tuesday. I can tell him I love him, that I miss him, that I’m here. I just can’t be there. And no matter how much I explain to him that missing someone is beautiful, there is one thing I know. If I could take this pain from him and carry it myself, I would. If I could make sure he never had to miss either of us, I would. Because he is so little. Because he didn’t choose this life. Because he shouldn’t have to learn to live with the absence of the people he loves before he even really knows what to do with it.
Missing you is beautiful, sweetheart. But from the bottom of my heart, I wish you didn’t have to feel it like this.
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