The kids are on vacation with their father this week. A week! An entire week! Seven days! But who’s counting? I made a mental note of all the projects I could finally tackle without interruption–cleaning out the office/guest room/de facto storage room, purging old toys, cleaning out the craft table, yard work, oh and the list goes on. I thought of all my friends I could catch up with over dinner and drinks. I salivated over the thought of being able to run to the store for a quick errand at night without a second thought. I couldn’t wait to not feel the stress of picking them up on time after work–traffic? Bring it on!

This is the first time I’ve gone more than 3 days without the kids–in almost 10 years. I love them–they’re my life. But I’ll be honest, I was stupid giddy with anticipation of tasting just a little bit of freedom.

It’s been two hours. The silence is deafening. I’m not sure what to do with myself. Who do I bark at to take a shower? I’ve already taken mine…There aren’t even any toys to pick up. No lunches to pack. No chunky cheeks to kiss goodnight.

I may change my tune and get used to this mid-week, but right now I’m at a loss. I need to remember this when they come home so that I don’t take their whining and fighting for granted. I need to remember how much I actually love being irritated. Don’t worry about me though, I’m OK. I just had cake for dinner. And a spoonful of Nutella for dessert.