“Switch day” is stressful for any child of divorce; I have three per week. Growing up, Wednesdays were especially difficult. Wednesday - baseball day - meant switching homes AND getting two bags ready. My one constant was my heavy-duty Swiss Army backpack, large enough to hold school books and clothes, but not baseball gear. One Wednesday I remember packing my bags and realizing later that I’d forgotten my baseball jersey, I asked my father to leave his practice to deliver it; I thought nothing of my request. When he arrived, my father told me that he had left a client who had traveled by bus with her four kids and taken the day from work for the appointment. He reminded me that our actions affect others. I never forgot that moment. 

By freshman year, I had given up baseball and the accompanying extra bag, but I still carried my reliable Swiss Army backpack. One day, I realized that I had forgotten to pack a paper and asked my mother to drive to school to bring it to me. When I met her, we had THAT conversation again. I remember the feeling of deja vu from seeing the disappointed look on my dad’s face after he brought me my jersey. I looked straight into my mother’s eyes and said,  “I’m sorry.” I held myself accountable, owned up to my mistakes.

After years of  switching houses every night and spending every other weekend with a different parent, Covid threw a wrench into my world, upending my switch-schedule. Now, on ‘switch days,’ I know I need to pack more into that heavy-duty Swiss Army backpack. 

This backpack seems to have grown with me. No matter how much I pack, it always feels like I have just enough room. Because of the lessons, I learned as a kid I was able to get in rhythm with this new schedule. When this adaptation felt seamless, I knew I had become the young adult my parents helped shape. Today, I am prepared and excited to begin my life as a man, ready for whatever new challenges I face.