I Can’t Manage Without My Partner, and I’m Okay with Saying So

home insemination Kit

By: Mia Jennings

Recently, my partner went away for a long weekend, leaving me in charge of our three energetic boys: ages 7, 5, and 3. This wasn’t just a minor inconvenience; it felt like an anxiety-inducing trial, a punishment for a crime I hadn’t committed. He was off catfishing with his brother, who needed a break, and while I understood their need for some bonding time, I was still a bundle of nerves.

Let’s be real: I don’t cook; I microwave. When left to my own devices, my meals devolve into yogurt and protein shakes, with the occasional salad thrown in for good measure. So, before his departure, he prepped a feast: paleo brownies, hearty egg casseroles, and a smorgasbord of instant food for the kids—microwave mac and cheese, toaster pancakes, and oven waffles galore. I had bagged lunch meat, juice, rice cakes, and a stash of applesauce pouches. He stocked the pantry like we were preparing for a month-long survival trip. I had muffins for breakfast (easy peasy), various lunch options, and the plan was to either dine out or order in for dinner. I was set for the weekend, though I felt like a ship lost at sea without my anchor.

I’ll admit it: I don’t function well alone. My mental baggage—depression, anxiety, and ADHD—makes it even trickier. My meds leave me a bit drowsy, and without a supportive partner, I’d likely crash by 8 PM with the kids. Parenting can be overwhelming for me, especially when it comes to clutter and chaos. Without a routine, I spiral into a panic. And if I get stressed? Well, let’s just say that yelling ensues. We strive for gentle parenting, so when I lose my cool, guilt floods in.

By the end of the first day without my partner, Max, I had left my ATM card in the machine and drove off. Cue the rage and the moment when my 7-year-old handed me a drawing reading “YOU ARE NOT AN IDIOT, MOM!” Normally, Max would have calmed me down and assured me everything was fine. Instead, I spent the evening digging through the minivan, looking for the card, which, of course, was hiding under a pile of sunglasses—ADHD for the win! I found it the next morning and couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Spoiler alert: I’m not an idiot.

Then came bath time for my middle son, who has a fabulous mohawk that he despises having washed. I tried to negotiate, offering him a bath or a haircut. He opted for the haircut, and I swore I’d seen the guard on the clippers, but, surprise! I hadn’t. The clippers kept sputtering out, and my 7-year-old declared that August looked like he had just stepped off a Wright brothers’ poster. Max would have intervened to prevent my impulsive decision-making, but he was miles away, and all I could do was stare at my son’s unevenly shorn head and weep.

The next day wasn’t a total disaster. We hit the barbershop, where they fixed August’s hair, and I bravely navigated the farmer’s market, only to splurge on one ridiculously expensive handmade stuffed animal in protest of the catfishing trip. Max would have talked me down from that impulse buy, but instead, I canceled plans with a babysitter because I panicked about the evening’s lack of structure. Max would have soothed my worries and sent me off to enjoy some time alone, probably dressed in something chic and artsy.

It’s not that I can’t parent alone; I do it every weekday, but I have a routine that keeps me grounded. I know when my partner will return, and I rely on him to help during the chaotic evening hours when the kids are bouncing off the walls. The thought of endless unstructured time makes me anxious, especially since I need rest due to my medication. Those meds wear off, and I often don’t notice until it’s too late.

The kids didn’t help my mood, constantly asking when Dad would be home and lamenting his absence, which made me feel unappreciated. They eventually reassured me that they loved both of us equally, which was probably not the healthiest tactic, but it was what I needed to hear.

Little tasks piled up to create chaos. When the internet went down, I panicked and tried to fix it, only to end up fuming at the cable company. When Max called, he calmly guided me through rebooting the modem and finding the signal for the Roku. I couldn’t even manage to work the TV in my own bedroom!

Loneliness crept in, and my anxiety about break-ins escalated. I forced my 100-pound German Shepherd to sleep in the room with us, despite my fear that he’d chew the furniture. I triple-checked all the locks, and when a friend made a snarky remark about something I wrote, I burst into tears. Max would have been there to hug me and calm my racing heart.

When he finally returned, we went to lunch, and he took the boys to the zoo while I napped. Order was restored. The house was a mess, but he whipped up a legitimate dinner. No impulsive haircuts, and I didn’t need the dog to keep me company at night.

I’m thrilled Max had fun with his brother. But let’s be honest: the joy he experienced doesn’t quite measure up to the emotional rollercoaster I endured all weekend. Sure, we can manage without him, and he deserves his time off, but I need my partner for those little everyday moments—big and small—that keep our family running smoothly. And I’m completely fine admitting it.

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In summary, the weekend without my partner was a whirlwind of chaos and self-discovery. While I can handle solo parenting during the week, the absence of my partner made it clear just how much I rely on him for emotional support and daily logistics.