Last year, I had a week off from work, and somehow, despite having three kids at home, I found myself almost alone. Well, as alone as one can be—my partner, Jamie, took our two older kids out, leaving our 1-year-old snoozing peacefully.
If you asked me about my ideal getaway, I’d jokingly reply, “A quiet TV and a massive pizza.” But honestly, there’s a kernel of truth in that. As a parent of three little ones under 9, I yearn for some solitary time. I often fantasize about all the tasks I could tackle without the kids around: my house would be immaculate, I’d be fit from working out, and I could indulge in some adult movies instead of yet another viewing of Moana. I could read, socialize, and lead a life that isn’t entirely centered on my children.
I think many parents share this sentiment, and it doesn’t stem from a lack of love for our kids. I adore my children! The issue is that parenting lacks an “off” switch, and we rarely get breaks, making us crave them even more. However, it’s a double-edged sword; when we finally get that time alone, guilt creeps in, making us feel like we should be doing something—anything—for our kids.
For instance, while Aspen was asleep and the older kids were away, I fired up a mindless action flick on Netflix—something I never get to watch because Jamie can’t stand them, and the kids are far too young. As I watched, a wave of guilt washed over me. I felt compelled to be productive, but I wasn’t sure what that meant.
This guilt is a constant companion during my rare moments of solitude. I dream of that alone time when I’m at work, but when it arrives, I find myself anxious and restless, worrying I should be focused on my family instead.
It’s a peculiar feeling, and while I can’t quite put my finger on it, I suspect it relates to the profound shift that comes with parenthood.
Having been a dad for nearly a decade, I’ve managed to cling to two hobbies: cycling (though I’m starting to let that one slip) and writing. I write daily, but only in the early morning while everyone else is asleep, so I don’t feel guilty about taking time for myself. I imagine it seems strange to those without kids, but that’s the essence of parenting—it’s all-consuming.
My kids are my passion; they occupy my thoughts, my worries, and my conversations. I write about them constantly, and while it may sound like an obsession, it’s really not.
A while back, I watched a documentary called The Other F Word, highlighting former punk rockers who are now dads. There was a memorable quote from Flea, the bassist of the Red Hot Chili Peppers: “The classic parenting attitude to a kid is like, ‘I brought you into this world. I gave you life.’ But I think the opposite: My kids gave me life. They gave me a reason.” I can echo that sentiment. Reflecting on my life before kids, filled with movies, long bike rides, and endless hangouts with friends, I realize I didn’t truly live. I didn’t grasp the meaning of purpose or struggle until parenthood. Helping my son ride a bike is far more fulfilling than any of my rides, and teaching my daughter to write brings a joy that surpasses finishing any essay.
This explains why, when I do find myself alone, I feel unproductive. I sense I should be doing something greater, because parenting is just that—it’s the most demanding yet rewarding endeavor I have ever undertaken. Although I sometimes fantasize about escaping into the woods, I look back at those chaotic moments and feel proud that I survived them and, hopefully, helped my kids grow into better people.
Just as I was lost in thought during my movie, Aspen woke up. I switched off the TV and headed to her room, where she reached out from her crib, her golden hair tousled from sleep. She was crying, so I handed her the pacifier.
“Did you miss me?” I asked, and she gently touched my face.
“I missed you too,” I replied.
In the end, it’s clear that while we may crave alone time, it’s the connection with our children that truly fills our hearts.