It is 11:30, and my house is eerily empty. I have both anticipated and dreaded this moment for months, if not years. After ten years of child-filled days, I now have three days a week to myself. Having already had breakfast with one of my best friends, now also child-less, I’m not quite sure what to do with my afternoon.

 

 

 

Today will be filled with getting done all that has not gotten done this summer. Paying bills, updating accounts, catching up on emails—all sorts of fun awaits me at my computer. I might even unpack from our weekend. Maybe.

 

 

 

Buddy is now at lunch—I try not to picture possible scenarios, as they all, currently, in my own fearful mind, involve him ending up in tears. It’s just best that I not go there. Not today. Not any day. He will be fine. He will be fine. He will be fine.

 

 

 

I will try to turn my thoughts to balances and budgets and bookkeeping. I will try to not watch the clock. I will try to work first, and will try to play later, as well. I will try to not call out to an empty room, “Listen, Buddy! There’s an airplane!” I will try to reserve this time for myself, and fill it only with what I want to do. I will try to not miss my Buddy, and wonder what he’s doing every moment. I will try to focus on being an adult without children, if only for a few hours. I will try.

 

 

 

Then, once they are home and tired and whiney and bickering, I will remember why I couldn’t wait for today to come. And I will sigh a sigh of both contentment and frustration, and I will both look forward to and dread Friday, when I will do it all again.