There's a little ritual that my wife and I both take part in. Maybe it's a rite of passage for parents, or a necessary obstacle to try and salvage your sanity in the face of nonstop loud noises, voices, fights, and run-stomping that sounds like a herd of bison tearing through your home and not just two young kids playing. I practice this ritual on the weekend mornings, and my wife does it while Abby naps during midday.
(Cue the Mission Impossible music)
I swing my feet over the side of the bed and let them sink slowly into the carpet. The first test presents itself. Will the floorboards creak? Doesn't matter, it's a chance I have to take. I stand, putting my full weight on my two feet, and hear only the faintest of sounds of protest from the floor.
Good.
Using the balls of my feet - and my toes for balance - I creep toward the bedroom door. Daylight is already beginning to filter into the room from the window, and my watch reads six-thirty a.m. I have time. Surely I have time.
The hallway presents the biggest challenge. In days past I'd sneak right down the center of the hall, hearing floorboards protest in sounds ranging from short, dry murmurs to shrieks of dumb fury at every other step. Only a few months ago did my wife let me in on a little secret: if you stay near the walls the floor is less likely to creak.
So that's what I do. I hug the wall like a jumper on a ledge who's had second thoughts. My feet shuffle against the baseboards. The farther I get away from the door at the end of the hall, the more carefree I can be, but it's best not to chance it. Right now it's 6:32 and I have a good fifteen or twenty minutes to myself. Maybe even thirty. Who knows? A man can dream, right?
The call of nature is usually strong in the morning. Luckily a bathroom rests halfway down the hall, on the opposite side of bedrooms. If you're a guy, you're in luck. You can aim. The trick is to not hit the actual water with your stream, or it'll sound like a mini waterfall inside the house. You skirt the water in the toilet, aim for the sides of the bowl. This method will almost eliminate sound altogether from your morning bathroom routine. With that deed done I wash my hands (using the low setting for the sink faucet, allowing only a murmur of water instead of a high pressure blast), and it's time to continue the trek to the ultimate destination: the recliner in the living room. There's only one more stop to make.
I make it into the kitchen. Here, there are two loud sounds that could spell doom for my brief time of solitude. One is the hot water knob at the kitchen sink. For some reason, the knob for hot water lets out its own screech every time you turn it. I'm a lefty and no matter how hard I try to remember to just turn the damn cold water knob with my right hand instead, ol' Mr. Left has a mind of its own and reaches for the closest one before I can stop it.
Why do I have to turn the water on at all, though, right?
Coffee is why. Without that hot, sweet bean nectar this time alone will mean nothing. It'll be spent trying to clear my head and focus my eyes while a random song plays on repeat in my head (seriously, every morning of my life that I can remember has been accompanied by a soundtrack. Sometimes it's a good one, more often I'm getting Rick-rolled or hearing Baby Shark on a loop). Without coffee I'll sit on the recliner and wonder what day it is until I hear Abby start calling my name. So I have to have coffee. Hence, I have to turn on the water to fill the pot.
That brings us to the second loud sound: the coffee maker itself. Granted, it's not too loud, but it still coughs and burps little exclamations of noise into an otherwise quiet house. Add to that my (hopefully dainty) footsteps tip-toeing back and forth to and from the pot, it can be the recipe for disaster.
I lived alone for several years before I got married. I'm introverted, and alone time was my jam. I like being around people, sure, but I always enjoyed going home and sitting in the silence of my house, watching a movie or playing a video game or reading.
Now, roughly ten years later, I'm experiencing the flip side of that coin. I wouldn't trade my married life with my kids for anything, but it does not offer an ample amount of time to oneself. I can give up my alone time, but I'm still going to scrounge for little pockets of it whenever I can get it like a druggy jonesing for his next fix.
So I do my little covert waltz through the house. I tip-toe, I wince when my weight causes a snap, crackle or pop, I breathe shallow and slowly ease myself into my recliner. Well over half the time I realize once I've sat down, and once the faux leather has stopped squawking, that I have forgotten the book I was going to read or that my phone is laying on the kitchen island. It requires extra sound to make up for that error. A good rule to remember: Always picture yourself in your spot of rest, doing what you plan to do. What all is around you? What do you need to bring?
In the end my sneaking usually doesn't pan out. Not for any useful length of time, anyway. I may make it a page or two into a book, but inevitably a little voice in the back of the house speaks up.
"Daddy?"
And if you don't answer? If you think Maybe she's still half asleep. Maybe she'll drift off for a few more minutes? Well then the voice gets more assertive.
"Daddy." (No longer a question. A statement, short-clipped, bordering on admonishment.)
...
"Daddy, tum dit me." (Translates into "Daddy, come get me.")
And if I wait too much longer the little voice begins to wail. "I wan' dit outta dis!"
If that voice doesn't speak up first, there's another sound. I'll hear a door open in the hall. A seven-year-old whirlwind will zip toward me, ready to play immediately and fully prepared to send me on a guilt trip if I say no.
And it's all okay. It's great, even. Alone time can play second fiddle to the boy that spins through the house like the Tasmanian devil or the little smiling girl that calls from the back room. I imagine I'll get my alone time back in some form years from now, and I doubt I'll be looking forward to it so much by then.
Even knowing all that I still sneak alone time when I can get it. Tomorrow I know I'll be back to hugging the wall and slinking my way through the house, avoiding creaky floors and working the coffee pot as if it were a dangerous chemistry experiment, hissing to myself at any noise I make, praying for just a few minutes of solitude before the sounds begin.
Moral of the Story: Alone time is great. I mean GREAT. But not as great as spending these younger years with the kids that are literally begging you to notice them at all times. If they interrupt your alone time, give them a pass. Every time. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.
