It’s Monday morning, 8:00 o’clock.  I am sitting at the kitchen table writing.  I hear birds fighting in the bushes outside the window.  I hear squirrels chattering as they play chase.  I hear the trash truck rumbling through the alley and the heavy rush of a train whooshing by.  I hear the hum of the air conditioner, and the grumble of the coffee maker as it hisses and puffs its way to a full pot.  I hear my pen scratching on this paper.  It is the cacophony of small Monday morning noises; noises I’ve never heard before.  There is something missing in this cute cozy little cape cod on Nansemond Street that allows me this auditory delight………..it’s children arghhh where did I put the children?

Just kidding.  I didn’t lose them though anyone time they are away from me, I think I left them somewhere.  The children are at my brother and sister in law’s house. 
Let me pause here to give big thanks.  Every time I tell someone that they took them for a week the response is confusion mixed with a little bit of jealousy.
“And they did this on purpose.  Why?”
So interrupt with the thanks to my loving family, for loving my kids and me enough to have them as houseguests sans parents.  They are pretty great people. 
But back to me and my empty house.

A week alone is different.  It’s big time.  It’s not like the occasional weekend you get because some kind soul feels sorry for you because you haven’t been on a date with your hubby in six years so they pack you off to a bed and breakfast.  You have so little time you drive like a maniac to get to your destination usually something like three hours away.  By the time you get there you have cursed out numerous weekend travelers as well as the toll booth operator who insists you did NOT put in a quarter when you know damn well you did because your family is counting pennies these days and you damn well sure you know how many quarters you got in your holster.
So you arrive planning a romantic evening in a fancy dress but your pre-dinner nap turns into room service and old t-shirt and your husband snoring to beat the band.  The next day you rush around shopping for trinkets for your kids at stores where a stuffed alligator cost twenty-six dollars.  Perhaps you do something more adventurous like take a hike in the nearby woods and end up bug bitten, sweaty, and with a mild case of something creeping up your leg.  You fall into bed determined to get up for the fancy dinner and do, but fret about the prices and end up drinking way too much because what the heck how often do you have a night out.  You wake up the next morning feeling old hideous and maybe a bit foolish for your dancing escapades.  You leave early, head pounding the next morning feeling guilty for making anyone take care of your kids and hoping they don’t hate you and them by the end of their stay.  You get back home poorer, exhausted and definitely worse for the wear then when you left and now to make it worse …you OWE someone.  No a week in your own home is nothing like that.

First off I am not complaining.  If I did my friends with kids might start a crusade for my head.  Poor baby they might snicker.  How will you manage?

I’m just saying…

I have gotten accustomed to kids.  Almost sixteen years into this parenting thing, I have accepted them as two ever present appendages to my daily routine.
D is like a leg and Beau more like a hand- he’s just not here like he used to be.  I know my time is not mine.  I know the dishes are never done.
I know that laundry piles up quicker then snowdrifts in Alaska.  I know buying tickets to Kings Dominion; a hundred dollar graphing calculator; a water gun
that shoots a rainbow of colors (and dyes everything in sight- it’s at Target if you see it…run) is higher on my list then the pair of custom made Vans I’ve wanted
for months or the really cute sailor necklace I saw at a gallery around Christmas time.

And the to-do list well, I have accepted the to do list is never done so what happens when the to do list gets done because well, mine’s done.
I have downloaded all my CDs to I Tunes.  I’ve sorted through the winter clothes; I have put ALL pictures into scrapbooks and updated baby books;
I have super cleaned my five-year hold’s room to the point that there isn’t a broken toy or Lego out of place.  I’m done.
I mean, I could add to my to-do list but it would be silly nitpicky sort of things like stock the bathrooms with tp, or clean the baseboards. 
All that’s left to do is be me.  My hubby’s at work.  The house is spotless.  I have done a few good deeds.  The car is clean for the first time ever;
no Happy Meal Toy parts, no crumbled pieces of Granola bar, no juice cups with glutinous substances in them.
It’s perfect.  The house is perfect.  The lawn is perfect.  Even the garage is perfect. 

“As machines become more and more efficient and perfect, so it will become clear that imperfection is the greatness of man.”

And that’s what I miss; the imperfection of life.  The messiness of a five year old that thinks he’s the next Picasso and the chaos of three people grabbing
for your attention at once. 
The quirkiness of Donovan who says, “Hello Mr. Butterfly I hope you are having a nice day” as he forms his fingers into the shape of a heart to send that bug off with a piece of his love.
The cleverness of Beau as he argues his point…and wins (well, when I decide to allow him the victory.) 

During the mad rush of life with kids I have dreamed of finishing my to-do lists.  I have hoped for afternoons with nothing to do and I have wondered what life with a clean house, car, yard and body looked like.
Well it looks….perfect.  But I have a new definition of perfect these days and it has more to do with being happy where you’re at then a string of completed errands
in a pristine house and more free time to kick back and relax then any Mom could ever know.

O.K…. O.K.  I’ll keep the free time AND the kids.  Now that sounds perfect.