Silence. Peace. Glorious soundlessness. This is the writer’s dream. Finally, there’s nobody in the house but me. The two family members who work on Mondays have left; the one who works remotely from his room now calls somewhere else home.
His leaving was unexpected. He’s my youngest, a mere babe by today’s leaving home standards. Western Australia is in the middle of a rental crush with a 0.8% vacancy rate, and he’d never rented before. We house hunted with a staggering amount of other accommodation seekers and never expected he’d get an offer so soon.
The congratulatory call came while I was driving us home from yet another rental viewing that only allocated ten minutes to the 40 or 50 people who streamed through, all eager to apply. My son jumped at the offer of four walls of his own; my heart leapt at the thought of his loss. I’m not much of an actor, but I was in full character mode then – acting happy for him because it’s good to have these chances while desperately trying not to wail at the thought of part of my heart residing elsewhere.
I longed to not have someone here on my one day off a week. It’s my only chance to get things done, but my youngest son was always around. He worked remotely from his bedroom but came out regularly for a chat.
My boy never clicked that a clattering keyboard meant I was writing. He had the knack of picking the exact wrong moment during one of my Netflix reward breaks to tell me something. He always chatted over the song I was trying to listen to on the car radio. I eventually stopped turning the radio on when he was in the car with me.
He’s completing his last year of university. But even before he accepted the remote position and converted to online studies to fit everything in, he never had classes on my day off. Not once in three years. While he was still in high school, his older brother was going to university and was always home on my day off, too.
I might seem ungrateful for the sons I was gifted when others are denied the dream of a family, but that’s not the case. I adore my children, and they love me. We still greet each other in the mornings with hugs and kisses. But, as they were growing, I wanted to miss them. I never got that opportunity.
We didn’t have family in the area who could take them overnight or even for an afternoon. I would have loved the chance to miss them, but they were always here. Underfoot. In my face. Never quiet. When I was truly fed up, the refrain of the Pink song Leave Me Alone (I’m Lonely) would play on repeat in my head: ‘Go away, give me a chance to miss you.’
In their teenage years, they sat in their caves, vampire pale, mostly nocturnal, exiting only if food was on offer or they somehow sensed I had stopped to relax, timing interruptions perfectly. No book got read without constant disruption. I watched Netflix instead of free to air TV so that I could hit pause as often as necessary. I wrote in fits and starts, making notes on my phone or scribbling sentences on scraps of paper.
Friends with children of similar age told me stories of never quite knowing where their kids were or when they’d be back from parties, nightclubs or girlfriend’s /boyfriend’s houses. They’d sit up late at night in case they were called to rescue them from drunken parties or impractical situations. Some installed tracking apps (with permission from their children) just in case.
But I knew mine were in their bedrooms, playing online. They socialised electronically. It has always been all …
… Then one left. Suddenly. And today is the first day that nobody but me is here.
It has not taken me long to work out this isn’t what I wanted at all. I dreamed of peace with the promise of later returns, not an empty room permanently devoid of the presence of the son who spent the last 20 years perfecting the art of interrupting me right at the critical moment of whatever I was doing.
Today, I can write as much or as little as I choose. But deep down, what I really want is to know my son is at the university, sitting through a lecture and a lab class, and will be back in four hours. Or that he’s in his room, planning a surprise attack at the least opportune time.
I realise now that never knowing when I would have to pause kept me on my toes and made me take advantage of every opportunity to get stuff done. Now, it’s up to me to motivate and monitor myself.
Maybe I should go write at his place instead?
A Glorious Mess 