I want to put some thing down about alone time and it’s importance. About the hot coffee next to me, the cold water on the other side, the clean living room to my left and the silence below the keyboard clipping. But no words fill up that space that is empty and important.
Asking for space. Shirking the guilt.
“do you want me to take the girls to the park for awhile, you can read or write or paint or pin or… anything.” yes. yes I do.
Even when he doesn’t ask. It’s. . .
“I need space. I need my skin untouched for 45minutes. I need it in my home.” and it’s him, gladly, going. It’s them, gleefully, going. It’s me, guiltlessly, refilling.
Alone time is love. And Love isn’t selfish.
And there aren’t words. There is hot coffee. A clean home. Cold water. A drawn bath. And a break. And I am taking it.
And I’ll probably end up right here.