by Paula Love

Created on: January 29, 2010

As a single mother of two, I have spent a considerable amount of time longing for peace and quiet. I would love to have time to myself, no noise, no demands, no messes. It would be nice to not have to say, “Turn that down” or “Knock it off” or “Why did you do that?” I would especially enjoy being able to use the bathroom or take a shower without being interrupted, and walk through my house without spending ten minutes picking up clothes, dishes, DVDs, and a makeshift pillow and blanket tent that was constructed between the sofa and ottoman.

I imagine the things I would do if I had a few days to myself. I could meditate, read, watch television shows that don’t feature animated characters or peppy singing teenagers, listen to the music I choose, and work on my writing projects. In fact, I’m certain that if left to my own devices, I could be a sophisticated, stylish, successful author rather than the exhausted, casual nine-to-fiver I am now.

Peace. Quiet. It would be a dream come true!

My dream became reality one day when my mother offered to take the kids off my hands for spring break. I told her she would be calling me to come get them after two days. She just laughed softly, that little knowing laugh that moms like to use when they think they have information that you have yet to discover.  

“You won’t know what to do without those kids. I bet by the end of the week you’ll be begging me to bring them home,” she said, still chuckling.

“Oh you’re on, lady,” I retorted in all seriousness.

That Sunday I ushered them out the door with hugs and smiles, loaded their stuffed suitcases into my mother’s car, and waved as they pulled out of the driveway. I had already decided that my first task would be catching up housekeeping. I stripped all the beds and began washing sheets first, then set about ridding my son’s room of the foul odor of boyhood. I raked piles of dirty clothes out from underneath the bed, Febreezed the curtains and mattress, then sprinkled carpet freshener on the floor and vacuumed it up. The stench remained. Undaunted, I doused the air with “Garden Fresh” scented spray but after a few minutes it smelled like the garden was growing in a locker room. I gave up and lit a candle in hopes that the flame would exorcise all traces of the testosterone demon.

In between folding the loads of laundry that seemed to be breeding every time I left

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