Of greener grasses and solitary confinement

It was 6:00 a.m. I had been staring at the ceiling fan in my dark bedroom for more than an hour before finally dragging myself out of my bed to wash my face and brush my teeth. Not knowing what else to do on a holiday Sunday morning, I moved myself out to my back porch swing with a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and a book that I have not been able to focus on, yet refuse to give up on until I finish.

I caught glimpse of him in the corner of my eye, bounding gleefully through our side yards and into his backyard, hiding brightly colored Easter eggs in all-too-conspicuous places. He was giggling like a child. As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared again into his home, and I soon dozed off on the swing, already sweating in the early morning heat and humidity. I was roused by happy chatter and more giggling, awaking to find a celebration of sorts in their backyard and on the golf course behind our homes. A grill was already fired, the egg hunt an apparent success, and now their family of three was playing soccer in their yard in their best Easter clothes.

I smiled wistfully and looked at the clock on my cell phone. It was 10:00 a.m. I had been up nearly 5 hours and had not uttered a word to anyone, to myself or even into the dead silence that rules my house on the nights when my sons are away. She saw me through the porch screen, smiled and waved happily. I waved back. She walked up to my screen door, and I stood up to prop it open, not even self-conscious of my greasy ponytail, pajamas and bare feet.

“What are you up to on this Easter morning?”

I bit my tongue, and wondered if it LOOKED like I was doing anything other than a whole lot of nothing.

“Relaxing and reading,” I smiled. “The boys are with their dad this weekend.”

I looked past her as her husband growled wildly, chasing their young daughter through the yard, the ribbons of her Sunday dress trailing behind her. He caught her and spun her around, both of them laughing euphorically.

“I envy you so much!”

Her words broke through my haze, and I stared back at her, wondering what on Earth there is to envy about a woman with greasy hair and sweaty pits, spending her Easter alone on her back porch with a dog-eared book about the zombie apocalypse.

“You do what you want. You get so much time to yourself. I haven’t read a book in ages, let alone gone out for a drink or a pedicure. I don’t know what I’d do with myself. You’re living MY dream!” She suddenly looked serious.

I was angry. Then sad. Then calm again.

Her husband was behind her in the yard, hopping on two feet like a rabbit, singing “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” to their adoring daughter, who was hopping alongside.

I smiled at her and motioned to them.

“You’re living MINE,” I said.

It finally occurred to her that her words hurt, and she put her hand on my shoulder, at a loss for words.

“Happy Easter,” she finally blurted, after failing to form the words that her brain was telling her would not really matter.

“You, too,” I said. “Enjoy your time with your family. No one should miss out on ‘Peter Cottontail.’”

We laughed, and I slid back into my quiet house, sliding the glass door shut behind me, drowning out their happy sounds.

I remember how it felt to feel like she feels. Feeling like you have no time to yourself. Feeling alienated from friends. Just wanting to sleep one night without any interruptions, or sleep well past sunrise on any given day. I remember wishing I had more time, more silence.

Now I have it. And it’s overrated.

It’s not what I long thought it’d be.

I HAVE to hand my children over every weekend, whether it’s a holiday or not, whether they’re sick or not, whether there are family gatherings scheduled or not. When I come home at the end of the day, there is no waiting period during which I can anticipate the return of a lover or even my kids. There’s no one for me to shout, “Honey, I’m home!” to. More often than not, I get well into the afternoon before realizing that I haven’t spoken a single word aloud. I read. I clean. I shop. I dine alone. But understand that being alone is no longer a novelty to me. Alone is a routine, and one that becomes less and less welcome. Sometimes the loneliness swallows me whole, and I shake daydreams from my eyes to realize that I’ve been sitting and staring at the wall for hours on end. But on those days, alone is my only real option, and it doesn’t even feel like an option as much as a sentence.

I know everyone thinks they have it rougher than the rest, but truly it’s all about perspective. We are unfortunately almost always compelled to seek greener grasses and second-guess our decisions. Some live in regret, some wonder “What if?” or “Why didn’t I?” And sometimes, you just get stuck in another field not of your choosing and find that things aren’t always what they seemed, but you make the best of it anyway. Because life goes on. It has to.

I make the best of it. I really, really do.

But sometimes it catches up to me, and I find myself in my pajamas at 3:00 in the afternoon, not because I am reveling in the freedom to do so, but because I disappear into the oblivion of my mind and don’t realize I’m even alive until a ringing phone or a knock at the door reminds me that I should probably feed myself or try to make contact with the outside world. When I was a full-time working, married mother of three, I longed for space and time to breathe and be myself. As an unattached, divorced single mother of two who kisses her boys goodbye per a strict schedule, I am haunted by how lonely all of this “alone time” makes me feel.

She wants my life.

She has no idea how lucky she is.

I guess none of us really do.