Last weekend I came home from my run to find my house looking like a drunk midget had burglarized it. I’m used to this, as I live with a 13 month old who is into everything within her wingspan. I called out to see where everyone was and got no response. I peeked into the bedrooms. No one. I stuck my head down the stairwell to the basement. I heard no activity. I looked out the window and saw no one in the backyard. I was home alone.  The last time I could remember feeling as ecstatic about this circumstance as I did at that moment had to have been in 1996 when my parents dropped my little sister at a friend’s house and left town for two nights.

What would I do with myself!? I was so excited I could hardly think straight. Every possibility crammed itself into my mind at once… COFFEE! SHOWER! LAUNDRY! READ! BLOG! ORGANIZE CLOSET! WATCH GIRLS!

I decided the shower would be a waste of time because that’s freebie alone time anyone even if anyone else is home. Except on the days when Sweet Pea insists on playing peekaboo with me through the shower curtain, of course. Coffee could be consumed while engaging in any other task, and would intensify my enjoyment of whatever it was I would ultimately choose, so I started boiling water for the French press. I found the Styles section of the New York Times and settled down on the couch but before I could even flip to Modern Love, I heard the sound of the key in the lock, looked up, and there in the front doorway stood Dan and Sweet Pea. Cue the sound of the sad trombone “Wah wah wah wah” sound.

Dan must have been paying close attention because this Saturday, he said, “Would you like me to take Sweet Pea out for a walk so you can have some alone time at home.” You bet your a** I would. And here there I sat.. Coffee in hand, laptop on lap, imprinting that moment in my blog for posterity.

Who’d have thunk being home alone at at 34 would feel as good as, dare I say, better than it did when I was 12?