HOME ALONE

My husband loves a house full of children – big and small – and unlike me, doesn’t like to be alone. Opposites attract and all that stuff.

When, on those rare occasions the house is empty, I stand still for a moment and soak up the sounds of nothing and of no one. This silence rarely lasts more than an hour; sometimes only a few minutes. And before a long a car door slams and the sound of stampeding feet shatter all notions of quiet.

Once, not long ago, the entire clan were going to watch rival football teams play at the MCG. Me, being a football non-enthusiast, declined the offer to join the throng. By declining, I could see before me at least five blissful hours of ‘my time’. My time to watch a chick-flick, soak in a bath, play my music loud – or soft; my time to play ‘Queen of the Remote’ and change TV channels at a whim. I even envisaged the freedom of walking naked from bathroom to bedroom with complete confidence.

Football Friday couldn’t come quick enough. My in-laws were travelling from their home in the Alpine Ranges to attend the event. It was going to be a great night all round. (Pic of Don and Liz above.)

Any sniffle or sign of floundering enthusiasm from the children as Friday approached was met with a fistful of vitamins and lots of over-abundant hand-clapping about how magnificent the MCG was, how awesome the crowd will be, and how crucial it was for my children, as Richmond supporters, to fly our flag against the heavily weighted Melbourne Mob.

Before long, it was Friday. My night of silence and solitude was so close, I could smell the bath salts.

The footy dinner was prepared: meat and salad rolls, savoury biscuits, fruit, and a bottle of water each. It was all crammed into a back-pack, along with a thermos and tea bags for the oldies. Finally, everyone and everything was ready to go.

I did the numbers in my head: ‘Will you all fit in the one car?,’ I asked my husband.

He did the count: ‘Me, Dad, 1,2,3,4,5,6 kids. Yep, we’ll fit in the Land Cruiser. And the girls are driving themselves in so they can go out afterwards. Easy.'

‘So who’s taking your mum?’ I asked.

‘Mum? She’s not going,’ he said. ‘I thought you knew. She wants to stay here, where it’s warm, and watch the match on TV. That’s okay, isn’t it? You didn’t have anything planned, did you?’

‘Well, actually…’ But what could I say? That I wanted my 76 year old mother-in-law, who’d just come from seeing a cardiologist about her up-coming triple bypass operation, thrust into a winter’s night to sit on a hard seat in a blasting cold grandstand?

I know what you’re thinking: that yes, that’s what I really did want, given that the myth of mothers-in-law share the same mythological platform as stepmothers. Well, that’s just what they are: myths. And as far as my mother-in-law goes, I’m her biggest fan. This woman not only raised eleven children of her own, but also took in foster children and then her dementia-suffering mother-in-law. If anyone deserves an elephant stamp around here, she does. I have great admiration and love for her. From the moment we met, she opened her arms and her heart to me, and she’s been a constant source of encouragement and wisdom ever since.

So no, I didn’t really mind that she wasn’t going.

Not much, anyway.

Besides, there will be other nights I can spend alone. Other nights I can be naked without scaring anybody; other nights I can rest in the quiet heat of a bath, surrounded by candles, trying to avoid water smudges on my book; other nights when I can watch a soppy movie and cry without embarrassment, dance to loud music, or just sit in meditative quiet…

If not this decade, the next.