“You’re not going?” my five-year old asked, as we planned the trip.

 “Sorry,” I began, in my gentlest voice. “Mommy’s not going to go this time, just Daddy and you guys.”

“Oh,” he replied. “Okay.” 

As I helped pack their clothes (three pairs of jeans, one pair of shorts, lots of extra socks) and marinate the fajitas, I was slamming drawers and cabinets.  

Why do I need to do all this work for a trip I don’t want to go on? 

Then again, if you help them get out the door, it buys you two whole days of peace and quiet.  

They left on Sunday morning. As my husband finished loading the truck, I sat on the couch watching cartoons with the boys. The older one poked me with his pointy elbows and knees. The little one warmed me with his chubby torso.

“I’m going to miss you,” I whispered. “Are you going to miss me?”

“No,” the little one answered. “It’s only two days.” 

I watched the pickup truck pull out of the driveway, then went to clean the bathroom. When the emotions are overwhelming, or when I just feel emotionally numb —as I did then — manual labor takes my mind off it. So I sprayed and scrubbed, and unsatisfied with the results, sprayed and scrubbed again. This time, breaking out the heavy duty chemicals instead of the natural stuff. Since the growing lungs and brain cells aren’t around, I might as well get the bathroom extra clean.   

But even freshly showered, with a sanitized bathroom, I cannot sit down at the computer. There are too many things that bother me. There’s that list of all the things to do — the things I put off, because the kids are around: backup the hard drive, install the anti-virus program, return that pair of shoes that didn’t fit, fix the lopsided picture frames, iron patches on the boys’ worn pants. On a separate sheet of paper I write a list of essays I plan on writing, and remind myself of the novel I started but never finished.  

I choose the path of least resistance, which seems to always lead to the mall. But even the parking lot is filled with happy families unloading strollers from their trunks. Why do I need to shoo my kids and husband away? And why am I not happy, now that they’re gone? I wander the corridors aimlessly, buying an unnecessary sweater and an overpriced bottle of shampoo along the way. Even the mall has lost its magic.

Once home, I ride my bike to the Mexican market and chop tomatoes and cucumbers for gazpacho. While slurping the soup, I watch a movie — the subtitled French kind — that nobody else in my family has interest in watching. I find a screwdriver to open up the picture frames and straighten out the photos inside. I barely sit down at the computer; even checking my messages will remind me that I am not writing.  

The quiet at night is unsettling. Every cat burglar and rapist in the city must know there’s a woman home alone in here. Even though it is July, I close all the windows. I have never been all by myself in this house overnight. In fact, in the eight years since my first son was born, I have never been alone for a night — anywhere. Although I am supposed to be getting rest, my sleep is fitful. A bird that sounds like a car alarm wakes me from my strange dreams.  

The next day feels more comfortable. I start off by taking a walk along a creek, then shopping for a new sofa and a barbecue for my husband’s upcoming birthday. At home, I clean some more stuff. Back up the hard drive and install a new anti-virus program. I even attempt to fix the broken laptop, but to no avail. Oh well, if that laptop’s not working, that one more excuse for me not writing anything.

In the evening, I see some neighbors outside and chat them up for too long. When I go to the Thai restaurant to order takeout, I let the owner talk me into ordering too much food, because I’m so delighted to have a conversation. I suddenly see myself as an old woman — the loneliness of the empty nested, and perhaps, widowed.  

So this morning, I sit here and type my story. It is as much as the muses have given me. The muses will be back today, and along with them, their conflicts, their noise, their mess. I can’t wait.