Quiet time

I’m enjoying a quiet day at home, in an empty house, for the first time in over two weeks.   

Austin has to be at school by 8:30; Will has to be at school at 8:45.    We drive and dropoff Austin at the back gate by 8:30, sometimes a little later, and then Will and I park the car and walk to Kindergarten.   

The Kindergarten yard is open at 8:30 and the kids are allowed to go and play until time for lineup.    At the beginning of the year, most all of the parents stayed and chatted and watched the kids play until 8:45; now the crowd has dwindled down to a few parents as more of the young children have become accustomed to being dropped off in front of the school.  

Will begs me to stay until lineup for “one more hug.”    Everyday I ask, “How about I just drop you off today?”    Everyday the answer is, “but I really want you to stay.”    I think about all of the things I could be doing with that extra fifteen.    That’s natural, isn’t it?

I have become a fierce guarder of this time to myself.   Doling out time during my days like Scrooge, hanging onto it tightly.   I’m doing what is, in my mind at least, the minimally acceptable amount of volunteer time at the schools.    A very close friend is our PTA president, but fortunately she knows how I am, she doesn’t pressure me, but will occasionally ask, “would you like to help out with this?”  Help out - yes.  Chair a project - no way.    

I appear totally selfish about it.   Friends call - can you meet for breakfast or lunch?   I look at the week I had mapped out for myself, knowing each day what I wanted to do with my time.    I’m becoming unmoving about keeping certain appointments with myself.   I know I have to walk or run everyday; somedays company can be nice, but most of the time I want that time alone.    Today I have this project at home in mind, tomorrow I’m going to that place for that errand which will take all morning, etc, etc.   Built into all of it is blessed quiet time at home - to do some yoga, to meditate, to sit in my orchid garden and sip tea, to paint, to write.    

I find out how important this time is when I don’t have it.    There was this horrible week last fall that I didn’t have it.    And I was horrible.   Monday my housekeeper was here, she loves to chat, I try to remember my German.   It’s motivation for me to clean, too, when she’s here.   To tackle the linen closet while she vacuums, clean out the fridge while she’s cleaning bathrooms.    

Tuesday both kids were home sick.   They totally played me.   They could have gone in late; they felt fine after a little children’s motrin and some extra rest.   Note to self:  make  sick days more boring.   I tried that by making them clean their rooms.   But kids turn that into a treasure hunt, as they find old toys and books they’d forgotten about.  

Wednesday was my volunteer day in the Kindergarten.    They had a substitute who didn’t seem to like noise, or young kids, very much.   I decided I should stay long beyond my scheduled shift and lend a hand.  

Thursday Brian worked from home.   His stuff was everywhere, I kept tripping over it.   He made lawyerly phone calls that were less interesting because I only heard half the conversation.    

Friday was my day, finally, except I had to spend it cleaning.   The house was a wreck, and I was bringing a load of ten-year-olds home for a playdate.   At this age, they seem to travel in packs, and you have to bring in all the wild animals at once.    “You’re cleaning up for kids?” a friend asks, incredulous, during a phone call.     Yes, because it’s really that bad.   And kids are picked up by parents.   Who tend to hang out for a few minutes to chat.   And then have a few munchies.   Before you know it corkscrews and bottles are out.   

“NO,”  I said to my friend.   “You can’t come over and hang out.   I have things to do.    I can’t play today.  Call me next week.”    I didn’t feel as rude as it sounded.   We have that kind of relationship.   

She called back.   “You can clean, and I’ll just keep you company.”

“No.”

“I’ll just sit, and won’t bother you, and talk.”

“NO.”

“I’M REALLY UPSET ABOUT SOMETHING AND I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.”

Three hours later she left my house, and I had two hours to clean up  Legos, laundry, piles of schoolwork, and all the other clutter all over my house.   

So I stood today in the Kindergarten playyard wanting those fifteen minutes.   Greedily wanting them for myself.    

“But I just love you sooooo much,”  Will had said in the car.     “I just love you and will miss you when you walk away.”   

“You don’t even notice me when I wait,”  I replied, giving him a glimpse of his future with some petulant girlfriend, “you are off chasing your friends and I’m just standing there.   Most of the other moms have already gone.”

“And you don’t want to be the only one?”   he asks.

Suddenly I realize how silly this whole discussion is on my part. 

“No, that’s not it,” I’m just being a time Scrooge, I think to myself.  I hug him.   

So I go, and I stand, and I wait.   I wave at parents as they walk in, drop off their kids, and walk away.    I watch Will and the other kids chase each other around like the little wild foxes used to do in our backyard in Virginia.

I remember a great parenting article I read once about just being there.   That’s all.   It should be the easiest thing in the world.   Just hang out and be there with your kids.    It doesn’t require doing crafts, or building Lego spaceships, or even reading a book.    Just be there, in the room, within sight, watching them play.    

Even Austin, at age ten, still seems to need this.    We were walking through a store recently, and he has his arm around me, hanging on.   He’s getting bigger, I stumble and almost fall from the weight of his body.    “Honey, you can hold my hand, or my arm, but you can’t put your weight on me, you’re too heavy,”  I complain.   “But I just want to be close to you,”  he says.    

They won’t always want me to be there.    But for now, they do.    I think, that’s probably, in the big picture scheme of things, worth a heck of a lot more than that quiet time to myself I’m hoarding.