Being alone in your house when you’re a parent is… indescribably amazing.
The silence. The stillness. Not being touched. No one’s talking or fussing. Even the mess doesn’t cry out when you’re alone.
It’s just so damn peaceful.
Today, my husband took our son out of the house for a daddy-and-son playdate for two hours and left me alone.
In the house.
For two hours.
Neither of us is ever alone in the house.
This house is rarely silent, and it’s never still. There’s constant movement. There’s always talking or fussing. The mess is chaotic as it gets made, and cleaned up, and remade, and left for tomorrow.
The cycle isn’t terrible — but it certainly isn’t peaceful.
Unscripted alone moments are rare. Sure, when I drive to and from work, I’m alone in my car — but that’s not a moment. When I’m rushing through a seven-minute shower, I’m alone — but that’s not a moment. When I’m running errands or grocery shopping, I’m alone (with other people) — and those are not moments.
True alone moments are when you don’t have to think about what happened or what’s next or what’s happening now. When your body can take a break from doing, and your brain can take a break from considering.
Thought and action are natural during alone moments. No reason. No consequence.
I showered, exfoliated, used moisturizer. I let my hair air dry. I ate apple slices with peanut butter without little bites taken out of the best parts.
Finding — and obtaining — truly alone moments as a parent feels impossible, and I can’t remember being alone for any amount of time when I felt I could allow my brain to turn off and my body to relax its tension.
And my kid is 2.
We’re both overdue, and I plan to pay that amazing man back for those two hours with two of his own.