I'm at my computer in my bedroom, listening to the sound of the squeaking ceiling fan, the kids outside playing with water guns (I'm not supposed to know that they are shooting at one another right now instead of the wasps, which was the original intent behind filling them), a Cardinal calling in the distance, and Echo, a large Siamese-mix, snoring on the bed behind me. Gary has gone to work. It's just me and the kids for the next few evenings. I adore my husband and cannot wait until he's off from work again (Sunday) and I always dread the day he has to go back.
But the other half that is, shortly after he pulls out of the driveway, I find myself looking forward to the first evening alone. No one requesting that I divide my attention between him and whatever I'm trying to write, not having to negotiate with anyone over what video to watch, being able to putter from room to room without having to explain why (so what if I forget what I came in for . . . three or four times . . .). Being able to stay up as late or go to bed as early, with lamp on or off as suits my mood. And if I want half the cats in the house to sleep with me, no one complains about being crowded. Though I think it would help if Echo (who is about thirteen pounds) would not persist in attempting to sleep on top of him.
I think tonight it will be me and whatever book I find in the stacks of unread paperbacks at my bedside and some acoustic guitar music.