On solitude and guilt

Listening to what we need as best we can

View from the queue to The Sky Garden, London, 27th October 2022

I love the small window of time before my children wake each morning. When I am not required to be anything to anybody. I creep out of bed, taking care not to wake my husband, and make a cup of tea. Then I stretch out on the sofa with my journal. When twenty or thirty minutes have passed, I hear my son’s alarm sound, my daughter moving around her bedroom, and my heart sinks a little. 

I know that many women, and most mothers, crave more time to themselves. But that doesn’t stop me feeling as though I love my time on my own a little too much. I have been told many times that this time of life, before my children fly the nest, is precious. To appreciate it whilst I can.

I have looked forward to this week’s planned day trips whilst the schools break for a week, but also notice my irritation that the solitude I enjoy each day will be less.

I love losing myself in whatever I am doing. Not having to be in any particular place at any particular time.  Eating my lunch at eleven thirty whilst watching Tick Tick Boom, or Bridesmaids, or Dark Waters without having to wrestle the remote control from anyone’s hand. Sometimes when I’m at home alone, I leave my dinner plates on the living room carpet for the rest of the day and only clear them away when I hear the key in the door. I don’t want to waste a second doing any kind of household chore when I have the place to myself.

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Last Sunday I had planned a day alone. My husband was away visiting family, the kids were with their dad, Ross. Then I received a message from him. His baby son was poorly. Could I take Holly, our fifteen-year-old daughter, to her netball match.

Initially I felt as though I’d been mugged. My leisurely morning, trip to the gym and pottering about with my writing had been snatched away before it had started.

I wanted to cheer Holly on from the sidelines. For her to feel my support in that visible, obvious way. But I also wanted to stay in my pyjamas and couldn’t face small talk with the other parents. I considered telling Ross he’d have to find another way of getting her there. But his wife was working, and it’s not easy caring for young children single-handed. Part of me wished I hadn’t checked my phone. That I had remained blissfully unplugged.

Holly and I chatted in the car and listened to some music which settled her pre-match nerves. But I told her I wouldn’t watch her play this time. I dropped her off and drove to a nearby National Trust Forest for a walk instead.

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When my children were young, I went to every sports day, assembly, parents evening and party. I caught up on my work and household chores in the evenings whilst they slept. Holly and James felt my presence and support at those events, but there was also a cost. I was not a particularly happy mother, and I am sure they felt that too. 

My experiences during that time in my life, and what I have learned since, goes some way to explain my protective stance with my alone time now. Overextending myself so consistently for so long took its toll, and I am still recovering from that. I am still unlearning the patterns I was caught in. 

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When we tune into what we need, we can judge ourselves for wanting one thing over another. Throw in the expectations, needs and wants of the people we love, and the responsibilities we hold in the various roles we play, as well as the societal-driven standards we hold ourselves to, and it is rarely simple.

There is no right or wrong when it comes to everyday decisions - what we say yes or no to. What we’re able to offer others varies from day to day. Doing the ‘best we can’ is not a fixed parameter. The path through all of this is as unique as we each are. It can also look different today than it did yesterday.

I hope you’re doing well.

With love,

Claire

p.s. I was touched by the response I received to last week’s post, and your generous sharing of it. Thank you for helping my writing reach more people.

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