Revelations

I'm alone in the house for the first time in quite a while. I feel like kind of a fraud. What am I doing alone? (My husband brought the girls out for to breakfast at the diner, for some daddy-daughter time) Why am I not cleaning? (Which is the first, and usually only thing that I do when no one needs my attention). What am I going to do with myself? I keep thinking about when I read, "Eat, Pray, Love," and was stunned at the concept of "dolce far niente," aka the art of doing nothing, and enjoying it. I'm Italian, after all, shouldn't I be able to grasp the act of mindfully relaxing?

Of course, I'm going to do a little cleaning first. I just have to. It's half compulsion (if I don't do it, it's going to bug me) and half pragmatics (if I do it now, it won't be waiting for me later, and I can enjoy the girls when they get home). I promise myself I'll clean for less than 30 minutes, and I turn on the ipod first so that I can rationalize that I'm listening to my own music and therefore having downtime. And besides, I actually like to clean, so it's not like I'm resenting it.

Next, I have to figure out what to do with myself. It's not that I don't have anything to do; it's what to do first. Catch up on putting pictures in albums, or sorting through folders of photos on my computer? Not in the mood. Clean out my side of the closet? Ha. This is supposed to be relaxing, after all. What are my hobbies? Okay, let's see. Photography, reading, crocheting (not that I've crocheted in, oh, five years?), biking, hiking, running, cooking, writing. Oh, got it. My recipe binder. I have a binder, I've been adding to it for years, and it's full of every recipe I've ever pulled out of a magazine, copied down from a friend, etc. I'm constantly sticking pages into the front pocket, making mental notes to add it to next week's menu, but once enough pages are sitting there, it's chaos. With my binder, comes its companion-- a yellow speckled composition notebook, in which I keep lists of meals I've made, what we've liked, and what I plan to make next. I wrestle in my mind for a moment. Does meal-planning and looking at recipes count as relaxing? This is still family care, so maybe I should do something else, like take a bath with scads of candles around.

Then I tell myself to hush up... and decide it's much better to do what I actually like to do, than what some calagon commercial tells me I'm supposed to do. I whip out my binder, three-hole puncher, and sheet protectors (I'm such a food nerd) and settle on the couch with a cup of tea (now that feels required) and some Ben Folds Five playing on the ipod. And I sift. And marvel. And dream. Dream of my one-day cafe, and which recipes I'll serve there. Dream of having the time to actually try all these recipes. Dream of the lazy summer gatherings we'll have, at which I'll get to make each-and-every-thing that looks mouth-watering and tantalizing.

It's quiet in my brain, as I've finally stopped convincing myself that this is a valid activity, and am actually enjoying it instead. And then the revelations begin. I think about how wonderful alone time is, and how I (and so many mothers) never feel entitled to it. I think about the basics that I require in order to feel sane and capable, and decide that they're precious little (healthy kids, a happy spouse, a swept floor, an empty sink, and a clutter-free dining room table) compared to what we think we need (insert mental image of latest Pottery Barn catalog here). I think about being carefree and laid-back, which are my two goals; too-often prevented by my two realities, rushed and sometimes overwhelmed/grumpy.

I decide that I'll encourage more of this alone time (after all, my husband is always wanting to take the girls out) and see where it brings me. More refreshed, perhaps. More energetic, hopefully. More spontaneous, well, let's not get carried away. And even if I only agree to this because I think it'll make me a better mother and wife, maybe a little something will benefit me, just me, in the process. I'll tuck that into my subconscious, but just don't let my conscious know.