Suburban Kvetch

Alone time

December 2002

The house was empty and silent, but not sad. When my ten-year-old son, seven-year-old daughter and both dogs left home embarking on their first weekend at “Dad’s house,” I thought the world would collapse and I would dissolve. I shut the door behind them - my kids, dogs and my ex-husband — and leaned my back against the closed door, the way a leading lady does in a romantic comedy when she’s just come home from meeting the guy of her dreams. I waited for tears, for a weighty sense of failure and longing for my role of irreplaceable parent. And then I waited some more, shifting my eyes from the living room to the dining room to the rug beneath my feet. I tapped my fingers on my thigh. Then I walked down the hall toward my redecorated bedroom. The bed was still neat, not a ripple in the quilt. The throw pillows were in place. The bones and squeaky toys were still in the dog bed. I plopped down and clicked on the TV. Nickelodeon. I changed the channel.

Thirteen years before I had moved from my parents house to my own with my husband, and since, had shared seven homes with a variety of familial and pet configurations. I had never ever lived alone — even for a weekend.

So far, I liked it.

To be continued…