The sun creeps through the blinds, and the only audible sound is the steady hum of the ceiling fan or my own limbs rustling quietly against the sheets. In these moments, I sigh, stretch, and check the clock to see just how much time I will have to gather my thoughts, drink my coffee and debrief before the chatter and banter of children explodes down the steps and brings my solitude to an end.
But wait, what is that? Someone else is rustling the sheets. Ahhh, my husband, who has decided to go into work late this morning. Some mornings, I would welcome his loving caresses, happily turn into him without a second thought to my quiet time. But this morning, after a family togetherness filled lovely weekend, I feel invaded and annoyed at his presence. This morning, I was almost giddy at the thought of drinking my coffee and lazily reading about people’s weekends on Facebook with no responsibilities but refilling my coffee cup or sliding the purring cat of the keyboard.
Exciting morning, I know. But I long for the few stolen moments of solitude to refuel my soul and silence the chatter in my head or at least focus long enough to hear what the chatter is about. Instead, here I am beating myself up. Who wouldn’t be thrilled for a few extra, unexpected moments with the man of their dreams? Me. So instead of being welcoming and tender, I am cold, withdrawn, pouty, and he leaves for work sullen and disappointed. And I sit here in the deafening silence of my longed-for quiet time drinking my guilt-filled coffee, reading my uninteresting book, listening to the clamor of the cats knocking various and sundry objects off the needing-to-be-cleaned counters, waiting anxiously for the increasingly urgent calls of, “mmmaaaama…MaaaaMa…MAMA!!!” and wishing I had snuggled up with my husband and enjoyed the few moments of we time rather than fighting for this unsettling me time.
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