A lot of life is how you look at it.
When I first put together my joint-custody agreement, I felt that it made sense. I’d have my daughter either Sunday through Wednesday, or Wednesday through Sunday, in alternating months.
You can’t divide the week precisely in half, so the way it works out is that I have her either three nights or four.
Some days, this sounds perfectly fine. There are married businessmen I’ve known who must travel Monday through Friday, and they see their kids less often than I do.
But there are days I think differently, torturing myself with the notion that seeing a child half of every week means missing half her childhood: two weeks a month, six months a year, on and on till she’s grown.
What a loss that is.
To stay sane, I wrestle myself into thinking the glass is half-full. While I don’t see her as much as I’d like, I phone her on non-custodial days, and I’m aware of the issues that are up-to-the-minute current in her life. Besides, I am never too many days away from hugging her.
That will have to do. Joint custody is blunt and imprecise, but it beats being an every-other-weekend dad.
If the half-week is my full father time, then I’ll take it, and fill the days with as much love as I possess.
Today is Tuesday and I’ll see my baby tomorrow. That thought makes a long afternoon bearable.