Freedom to Leave

When I was married and had a house, I remember a day when I was so frustrated with my husband. He'd left the house and taken the truck to go out to the farm to finish some field work, but I hadn't known he was gone until I searched the house, called to the garage, scoured the yard, and found him missing. It wasn't unusual; he often got preoccupied with a job and in the urgency of getting something done, just forgot to let me know his plans. He wasn't purposely being unthinking, it was just something that happened.

But that day, his careless (to me) actions made me snap.

Home with a toddler, needing to run to the grocery store to pick up something for supper, I didn't want to have to pack up everything and haul her along; I just wanted to walk out of the house, get in the car, and leave. I wanted to be like him. But, I was The Mom. I was the one who made the arrangements before leaving, making sure that everyone knew I was going, the kids were taken care of, the animals inside, the doors locked. It seemed that this came along with giving birth and staying home with the children, so what did I expect?

Still, when he finally did come home, I tore into him. I shouted angrily, I fumed, I stomped around the kitchen, and banged things on the counter. "Just once!" I yelled. "Just once I'd like to find out what it's like to be a man and just leave! What's it like? I'll never know!"

Funny, now I do.

These days, I have no little ones at home who depend on me to care for them, no husband or significant other to inform when I'm leaving the house. True, I need to make sure the dog gets fed and let out on a quasi-regular basis (although she's uncomplaining about my erratic schedule), but for the most part, I can simply leave whenever the mood takes me.

It's strange, and liberating, but it can also be lonely. When I first began living on my own, it felt mildly brazen, as if I were doing something illicit or daring. I enjoyed going where I wanted, without having to be back at a certain time or letting anyone know where I was. After a time, though, it became routine to the point where I miss letting someone know my plans. So I can run to the grocery store at night--who cares? So I decide to see a movie on a weeknight and eat the popcorn all by myself--big deal.

"I'm going to the library and then run a couple of errands," I inform my dog, who looks at me with her head cocked to one side, earnestly staring at me with her deep, brown eyes. "I'll be home in a bit and then we can go to the park, OK?"

There. That feels better.