Greg told me the other day, “I’ve got the kids. Go do whatever you want.” Maybe your husband does this too sometimes. I am with the kiddos all day, every day, and I don’t go on business trips with steak dinners and lobster. I’m not bitter, I’m just saying. So I thought about what I’d want to do with my new found freedom.

There is a book of jazz Christmas carols on the piano in the living room. It is sitting there calling my name. People used to ask me to play for them and now they do not. I know why. The reason is that I used to be descent and now I am not. I thought about navigating through the jazz book with its 13th chord tricks, but then I thought that I’d be better off not doing something that will depress me and remind me of how badly I’ve become. I’m fragile, you know.

I thought about the quilt sitting in the closet. It is a log cabin with subtle hues of browns, pinks, and ivories. They are colors found in nature, soothing and pleasant. It was supposed to be a wedding present for my mother several years ago, but they already divorced. The quilt colors are perfect though, and I think so even if years have passed since I first chose them. Finishing the project is worthwhile. The problem is that it is that the project is so huge, and by the time I set up my machine and find the rotary cutter that slipped behind the shelving, my afternoon of freedom will be over. I will wait until my sewing room is set up in the new house at the farm.

I thought about real estate, one of my favorite subjects. When I used to have blocks of time like these, it was my habit to scout neighborhoods for real estate bargains. But the market has tanked, and we aren’t investing anymore. (Not that I was a wheeler-dealer before.) I no longer subscribe to the local Real Estate Hotsheet. We already bought our farm so it’s no use browsing United Country anymore. There are no phone calls to make, no faxes to send, no requests for tax information.

Like many mothers of babies and toddlers, I relish time to regroup. I love my children, but I also love my sanity. Don’t hate me for saying so. There is a certain sort of panic that overtakes my mind when given time to do something alone. What should I do? What do I like to do? Do I have interests beyond math curriculums and vaccination pros and cons? Who was I before all this? Am I still me? (Does it matter?)

One of the problems with this incredibly busy time of life is that I’m afraid I’ll forget it. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound? If I live these moments and tell nobody, does it really matter? Is it enough for God in Heaven to see? My toddler bends his head, lowers his eyebrows, and growls when you ask him to “Do scary, do scary!” He won’t do it for the camera, so will it be lost? Will we forget? I think so—unless we tell the stories, write the stories, remember the stories on purpose. My oldest is only nine, but so much of it is a blur.

By the time I’d decided to grab a coffee and read a book (that I’ve long since forgotten its name), my time was over. The baby needed nursing, and I am the woman. I hear her beginning to wake even now.