Four lunch boxes stood on the kitchen counter, ready to be filled and carried out by the children. The food the kids would eat at noon was still in the refrigerator, placed neatly into containers that would fit snugly into the box. Their water bottles waited for them, too, lined up and ready to go. This is the first year that all four boxes were filled simultaneously, an action that holds a significance I'm not quite ready to face. Because all four little beasts are out and about at school, all day. It's just me, the dogs, and the cat.
But as I sit here and key this in, I realize that the time had to come, eventually. That since 2002 I've had very few moments to myself and that this morning, on a day when the children leave and I don't have to get to work (I don't start until Monday), I will have at least five hours alone. (It would be six hours, but I have plans to help out the first-graders at lunch today, to make sure the buyers know where they go and that the packers know where to find their lunches.)
Five hours! That's a long time, and yet it isn't. It isn't even an entire work day, and with everything that could be done around here--cleaning, laundry, general straightening, writing, working on lectures, weeding, training the dog--I almost feel as I should just take those five hours, sit with a cup of coffee and enjoy the almost-but-not-quite silence. If I do that, though, my mind will wander to so many places it shouldn't go today. Did Melina find her classroom? And is she going to the bathroom too often? Can she hear her teacher all right? (All of those are true concerns for her and me today.) Did Aaron get to fifth grade math and back with little to no fanfare and how about Zoe and Talia? They left with lunch boxes, backpacks, and violas in hand. It was a large load for a twenty-minute walk. I'm sure they made it, but how did they fare? And did they open their lockers on the first try?
I could go on, but I won't. But I have convinced myself that writing or cleaning will be a better option for me to take on today. The best option would be to look at my lectures, but I think that will wait for tomorrow. Because I'll have another five glorious hours to myself again then.
But as I sit here and key this in, I realize that the time had to come, eventually. That since 2002 I've had very few moments to myself and that this morning, on a day when the children leave and I don't have to get to work (I don't start until Monday), I will have at least five hours alone. (It would be six hours, but I have plans to help out the first-graders at lunch today, to make sure the buyers know where they go and that the packers know where to find their lunches.)
Five hours! That's a long time, and yet it isn't. It isn't even an entire work day, and with everything that could be done around here--cleaning, laundry, general straightening, writing, working on lectures, weeding, training the dog--I almost feel as I should just take those five hours, sit with a cup of coffee and enjoy the almost-but-not-quite silence. If I do that, though, my mind will wander to so many places it shouldn't go today. Did Melina find her classroom? And is she going to the bathroom too often? Can she hear her teacher all right? (All of those are true concerns for her and me today.) Did Aaron get to fifth grade math and back with little to no fanfare and how about Zoe and Talia? They left with lunch boxes, backpacks, and violas in hand. It was a large load for a twenty-minute walk. I'm sure they made it, but how did they fare? And did they open their lockers on the first try?
I could go on, but I won't. But I have convinced myself that writing or cleaning will be a better option for me to take on today. The best option would be to look at my lectures, but I think that will wait for tomorrow. Because I'll have another five glorious hours to myself again then.
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