For a person who loves socialising and being amongst it all, I sure do like my alone time.
It comes with the territory. The territory of being a parent. As much as Mumhood is a complete joy, rewarding and precious and heart-wrenching and all-consuming in all the best possible (and sometimes worst possible) ways, I still like being on my own. I need to be on my own. To regroup. To unwind. To chill. To just be. To be me.
I find this time walking into work. I find it AT work. I find it on solitary drives. I find it doing the dishes. I find it in the shower. I find it furiously tapping away at my laptop. And today, as baby girl and Hubbie were both day-napping at home, I found it just gently perusing through a couple of shops.
I went into a bookstore where I didn’t even buy anything. I spent the time reading blurbs and info on writers that I was definitely going to read and look into in the very near future. Plath, Hemingway, Poe. I went from fiction to The Boy with the Striped Pyjamas, to Buddha to Pregnancy (no, I’m not) to anxiety, to cookbooks and then Dora sticker-books.
And ALL at my own pace. There was no chasing after baby girl, begging her to let me have a minute, or repeatedly telling her to (not) do that.
And so I went to the music store. Madonna, Prince, Buble, Williams. Drake. Oooh, cheap DVD bin. Oooh, cheap music bin. Check Avatar. No Thomas the Tank Engine? Ok next time.
I went home without a book or entertainment disc on me, instead hoarding milk and nappies, but I didn’t mind. It was the time that mattered, not the material. I had needed the time alone, and the time alone was precious enough on its own.
I am so grateful I had it.