My husband went out to dinner with his friends tonight, leaving me home alone to put to bed our sick, overtired baby, not to mention facing a pile of chores.
I was delighted.
His friends had pushed for us to get a sitter, as the group consisted of all couples, but our sitter has left town and Max is sick, cranky, and waking often lately. I didn’t mind staying home to tend him, plus I have a new knitting project I wanted to work on. But mainly, this is my first night home alone since Max was born, unless you count that awful, delirious week when C was out of town for work, about a month after the baby arrived. Except for the schedule of friends stopping by daily to check in, bring food, and help, that week was a blur. I’ve had many an evening out with my friends; C is more of a homebody, and his friends tend to hang out in couples rather than singly. So he rarely goes out without me.
I was looking forward to having the place to myself. It’s not that I don’t love spending time with C, but our small apartment and its unfortunate layout leaves little room for privacy. If C is watching TV or a movie, it’s hard for me not to be watching, too, even if I’m not in the room. So to find myself faced with an evening alone is like a little gift. So what if Max wakes now and then; the rest of the time, I’m baking, tidying, and about to write. The trouble is, there’s too much I want to do: assemble our new bike trailer, work on my knitting, read, write. I have an essay bursing out of me. There’s a cake recipe I’m dying to try. I want to finish the cake I’ve already started. Our new bike trailer sits in its box, waiting for tomorrow’s family ride.
I need to go and open that box, start the essay, knit away. I now understand why C doesn’t mind my evenings out and is so incredibly productive in my absence. Maybe if we had a little bit more space, so we could be alone yet together, we’d get over our entropy and get so much more done.
Not that I mind our movie nights with ice cream.