It happened today. I didn't expect it, nor did I orchestrate it. It's been a long while since the last time it happened. Today, it was a gift.
I was all alone in my house for eight hours.
Now, I must preface my comments by saying that I love my family. I love my husband and kids, and the biggest source of enjoyment I get out of my life is to see who my kids are becoming. My husband and I enjoy each other's company, and it still gives me pleasure to make him laugh.
Having said that, I must add that they are pretty much all around, all of the time.
My husband started working from home several years ago, making only occasional trips into his actual office. It's ideal for him - he comes downstairs, pours coffee and is immediately at work. He manages to be very productive, and he's a much happier camper without a daily three hour commute.
But he's always here.
My kids both work and go to school, but their hours are the same as mine. Of course, they're not toddlers anymore, and their lives are pretty much their own, but they are still residents of my humble abode. They take up space and consume in mass quantities. They make noise and watch TV shows and text and cook and do laundry - all under my nose.
I know my days of having the kids around are numbered. I am already grieving not being a part of their everyday lives. If nothing else, I am at least aware of the fact that they continue to draw breath under my roof. That they sometimes talk to me, voluntarily, is a great treasure.
But they're always here.
Today, however, the stars must have aligned themselves to my sole benefit. Everyone but me left the house early this morning for work or school. I got to sleep late because it is spring break at my school. When I climbed out of bed, the house was silent. Silent. Montessori teachers know the value of silence. It is a condition that soothes the soul.
A feeling of giddy joy washed over me when I realized that I was alone, and that I would be for nearly the entire day.
But what could I do to fill up the hours?
First, I opened windows all over the house. Had anyone been home with me, I know it would have only been minutes before someone exclaimed "Why is it so cold in here? Geez mom, are you crazy?"
No one was here to say that, and I relished the smell of fresh air invading a house that has been closed up for months.
Next, I played music that only I like - goofy country songs, Rod Stewart and Faces, one-hit wonders by obscure bands (Dexy's Midnight Runners, anyone?) and show tunes - and I sang along. Loudly.
No one was around to shoot me a glare or roll their eyes behind my back. I even danced a little in my bath robe.
I puttered. I folded some laundry. I checked my email. I organized a drawer. I read a magazine while I ate my lunch. I completed lots and lots of mundane tasks and talked to the dog the whole time.
I savored every second of my day to myself. I didn't really do much of anything but luxuriate in the solitude, but it was enough.
They're all on their way home by now, my family of adults. They'll return with their stuff and their cell phones and their needs and wants and all of the things that make them my family.
And I won't feel even a tiny bit guilty that I enjoyed their collective absence so much.
(P.S. I just discovered Wikimedia, where you can download images that are in the public domain, just like the painting pictured here. It is called "A Quiet Read" by Walter Langely, and I think it really speaks to the message of this post. It speaks to me at least - I often find myself just completely drawn into a book, losing all track of time and my responsibilities.)
