Even two-plus years into it, the 50/50 custody thing is hard to adjust to. In the beginning, it was necessary and therapeutic, even heady and thrilling to be granted days and days of kid-free time. It was one of the few things that compensated for the overall awfulness of the experience. Prior to that, whenever R& I unloaded the kids on grandparents or babysitters, we used it for “we” time–to see movies, go out to dinner, or take vacations. A true stint of solitude was a completely foreign concept.

There’s an established rhythm to the custody routine at this point–two days on, two off, five days on, five off–and as time passes, I become more and more estranged from my children’s other life. (The upside, I guess, is that I get to rehearse for the full-on empty nest slated for 2019.)

When the girls go for their 5-day stretch with R, here is what happens in my world:

• I breathe a huge sigh of relief, do some neck rolls, and look forward to days of not having to think about nutritious meals or deal with the sibling bickering, teen-daughter madness and mother-daughter drama that regularly ensue when they’re with me. Then I feel guilty and worry that something bad will happen to them as punishment for wanting them gone.
• I straighten, clean and prettify the house and it stays that way. (I also forage in the girls’ room and toss whatever strikes my fancy. Don’t tell them.)
• I debate whether or not it’s OK to put away my younger daughter’s complicated set-up of Playmobil or Calico Critters that consumes the entire rug in our TV room, usually decide it is, vacuum and spread out my exercise mat so I can do workout videos in that space (this as of 1/1/11, when I made resolutions to be more fit).
• I am, by default, the prettiest girl in the house and feel younger, sexier and more carefree than I really am. When I look in the mirror, I think to myself: “Damn, you look good for a woman of your age.” I might even blast a Barry White song from me to me.
• As the days go by, I start to miss my kids and wonder what they’re doing. I become painfully, acutely aware that they are living a whole chunk of their lives without me, much of it spent with R and his girlfriend and her sons, who live in another state. Sometimes the girls call me, sobbing that they miss me, and sometimes I call them and they seem annoyed, like I’ve interrupted something. Either one makes me feel bad and sad and left out. But as their mother, I have to rise above these childish feelings and pretend I’m a grown-up and that it’s OK that we live this way.

Here’s what happens when they return to me after five long days away:

• We hug and tell each other how much we missed each other.  My younger daughter talks non-stop for as long as I’ll let her. My older daughter–the teen–lets out whatever she’s been holding in, which means she cries, or gets irrationally furious at me, or hugs me a little too often and too hard. One or both of them come into my bed that first night, call me “Mama” in a babyish way, and I love it.
• My younger daughter gets upset that I disassembled her Calico Critter or Playmobil families and sets them back up with a vengeance. The relatively beautiful, static physical world that I’ve created for myself in our home is violently disrupted with coats and backpacks, iPod earphones, day-of-the-week panties, Ugly Dolls and socks (what is it with the socks?) strewn mindlessly on the couch, the floor, the table, the counter tops, everywhere. At first it all feels threatening and unsettling, but then I surrender to the chaos, beautiful in its own way.
• My older daughter–the teen–activates her freaky radar that immediately, and often angrily, registers any tiny little thing I’ve acquired in her absence. (“OMG, you got a new toothbrush?!?!?” Betrayal!)
• I am the least-pretty female in the house and seriously consider a life without mirrors (while my teenager wishes we had twice as many). When I catch a glimpse of myself, I think: “Whoa, you look like hell,” as I am now engulfed by the relentlessly firm, smooth, glossy-haired perfection of my daughters.
• I see the metaphorical lipstick on their collars, the little items that prove they’ve been having an affair with another mother (mother-mistress?) and her kids: Tote bags sporting the name of the town where she lives, a T-shirt from the day camp one of them attended with her son, fart jokes, hand-me-downs (is there anything that more blatantly cries “family?”) and a revived enthusiasm for Harry Potter that they’ve picked up from her boys. Their innocent infidelity can inspire in me a jealous fury worthy of Greek tragedy. But no tantrums on my part are allowed. Instead, I must remind myself to sweetly inquire about their other life, to try hard to be happy that they’re making new connections with decent people.
• I’m hyper-aware of the distinctly R-ish quirks they’ve absorbed–a way of whistling, certain turns of phrase and points of view. Some induce nostalgia, some make me cringe. (The teen and her dad, for example, make the exact same icky noises when they eat an apple.) I wonder if they, similarly, infuse R’s world with my once-familiar little habits.

As we get to day four of the stretch, my nerves, reinforced by the days without them, begin their bi-monthly fray, even as it hurts to see them go. My daughters pack their bags, I send them on their way, and the cycle repeats.

Since my last post on this topic, I’ve accumulated more proof that getting older and becoming curmudgeonly/peculiar are inextricably linked (but maybe the self-awareness is somewhat mitigating?) The latest evidence:

• I’m inclined to brag about my cholesterol levels. I had to stop myself from sharing the blood-test results from my latest physical with everyone in my office. Part of this I chalk up to the fact that I write about chronic medical conditions for a living and have become acutely aware of how precarious it all is. I didn’t make a formal announcement, but I’m considering putting up a sign in my cubicle: HDL: 87  LDL: 82  Triglycerides: 53.
• It’s time for trendiness and I to part ways. The first thing to go is the royal-blue toenail polish (with a daisy decal on the big toe) that I misguidedly chose for my last pedicure. Funky colors work on my teenage daughter, but do not flatter my ropey size 9 1/2,  46-year-old feet. Next time I’ll stick with a nice neutral tone and no designs.
• I’m aghast at the sexualization of absolutely everything. My daughter came home with a shopping bag from Abercrombie & Fitch, which features a toned male torso. My first thought was: “I say, young man! Put on a shirt for goodness sake.” Yesterday I was at Sephora (clearly a nickname for Sodom and Gomorrah). Among the store’s many demonic offerings is a line of makeup called The Orgasm Collection. I really thought I was hallucinating when I saw this. While the O word has been splashed across the cover of women’s magazines for years, I can’t believe it’s now an acceptable moniker for shades of lip gloss and nail polish. (What happened to “Revlon Red” and “Wine with Everything?” Weren’t those racy enough?). And to think that in my day, it was mortifying to bring a box of Stayfree mini-pads to the cashier!
• I know I’m right and that the world IS going to hell in a hand basket (see photo).
• I had a dream that I was shaving my face.

I try to steer clear of whining about the physical decline inherent in midlife, because it’s so cliche.

But I recently experienced a moment of reckoning in a fitting room at Lord & Taylor, where I was all alone with fluorescent lighting and a three-way mirror. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. My 46-year-old self stared back at me in all directions. Who knew I had a little pouchy chin thing, plus the beginnings of the weirdness that happens to one’s neck–not to mention less-than-taut upper arms? Not me. Until then.

I walked out of L&T dazed and confused, and without having purchased anything. (I might have bought something had the lighting been less brutal. Seriously–has no one done market research and found that women will buy things if the dressing rooms are designed to flatter, not to appall??)

In my disoriented, highly vulnerable state, I wandered into one of the three Sephora stores near my office. (There seems to be a 1:1 ratio of Sephora to Starbucks stores lately.)

I’ve worn makeup since I was in junior high school, back when my skin was a creamy, smooth blank slate, open to subtle enhancement via a bottle of Maybelline Kissing Potion roll-on lip gloss and a streak of eyeliner inside the lower lids (remember that technique, gals my age?) A spritz of Love’s Baby Soft and I was good to go.

Now, at my advanced age, enhancement is the least of it. Correction is what it’s about, and Sephora is all over that, with displays devoted to wrinkle fillers, concealers, and the newest word in corrective makeup: Primers. These are all designed to bring your face back to a flaw-free baseline so that it can receive the more frivolous embellishments like eyeshadow and lipstick.

It seemed exciting at first, to think I could erase all my facial flaws simply by purchasing a few tubes and jars, but I soon experienced what I call the orange-juice dilemma, which goes like this: When I was a girl there was one kind of orange juice. From concentrate, period. Now, you can choose from OJ with some pulp, no pulp, a little pulp, tons of pulp, with calcium, without acid, with other kinds of juices, etc. Should you want no pulp, yet tons of calcium, or a little pulp with a soupcon of pineapple juice, you are screwed. It is truly panic-inducing (or is it just me?) and I often find it easier to go without OJ than be forced to prioritize like that.

With the face-fixers, it’s the same thing. Sure, you can have a perfect face, if you can decide which flaw to prioritize. Wrinkles? Redness? Age spots? Crepey eyelids? Dark circles? Shrinking lips? Acne scars? Oily skin? Dry skin? No skin? No one product seems to do it all, yet the time and money commitment involved in covering even a few bases seems mind-boggling.

I decided to start small, with a concealer that has two components. The first one “neutralizes” discoloration and the second layer does, um… something else. I forgot what, exactly, but I know it works because it cost $28, not including the special brush, which was only half that price.