Why is it so delicious to have the house to myself? Have a couple hours? Let me count the ways:
When I leave my keys or lipstick on the counter they’re there when I come back.
When I get up in the night to pee I don’t step on a lego or a blob of jelly that fell out of a sandwich.
I can hear myself think.
No homework.
No teasing.
I don’t care if we have milk.
I know where the remote is.
I can eat out of the pan.
No one kicks me because I’m snoring.
I can read until I get bored.
I can get bored.
I don’t have to say “No.”
I don’t have to share.
Did I mention sleep?
My kids always ask me if I get lonely or miss them when they’re away. I lie. I say “of course!” The answer is “not really.” Am I a bad mom? I don’t think so but I also don’t care. Honestly. Whatever. I LOVE my week. I need it.
I love it because it is only a week.
The funny thing is I’m so boring when I’m alone. When I fantasize about having time alone my fantasy self does projects. Cleans out the closets. Gets drunk and stays out late with friends. My real home alone self is a slob, sleeps until 10:30, reads Norwegian mystery novels, doesn’t drink much at all (who needs a cocktail when you’re already in heaven?!), doesn’t even leave the house until the Stay’s Pita Chips run out. Left to my own devices I’m completely pathetic (and ecstatic, for the time being).
Who would I be without my husband and kids? Oh dear. I freaking couch potato with wierd knowledge of crime in Oslo but no idea who Lady Gaga is. A woman who hasn’t been projectile vomited on and therefor is under the illusion that she’s in control of her life. A woman who thinks having her keys in the same place she left them is really important. I know better. Any 4-year-old can tell you where your keys are (after all she hid them). She’ll also tell you that you’re “prettyful” and that your dress is “fabriolous”which in itself is worth more than a decent nights sleep.
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