Home Alone with Nothing to DO? Listen to your inner voice...

I had a very strange thing happen to me yesterday. Something that hasn't happened in recent memory. Maybe not even since I was single, all those years ago.

My husband was away at an all day seminar. My mom came and got the kids for a sleepover.

I was alone. In my house. For a whole afternoon.

No, really. I even made the dog go outside.

I understand that this kind of solitude isn't for every woman. In fact, a neighbor of mine recently admitted that she doesn't like being away from her family at all. But in my book, that's just crazy talk. I love my family hugely and fiercely, but even Mama needs a break once in awhile.

Which brings me back to an unsettling discovery I made once all the doors had closed and the house was all mine yesterday: I had NOTHING to do!

Yes, I could have cleaned out my closet or scrubbed down that mystery spot in my son's room or reorganized a sock drawer. But I wasn't so inclined. I could have worked (my usual free-time fallback) but my computer was busy projecting powerpoint presentations at my husband's seminar. I could have read (my other fallback) but I had finished my book the night before.

So with no way to work, and no desire to clean, and nothing to read, I was stuck. What to do?

One friend suggested I treat myself to a homemade spa day. But it was a nice day out — for once free of snow, sunny and not bitingly cold. My dog suggested that I take her for a walk. My conscience said that was a good idea and that I should also tack on some yoga afterward. My house said that I should make a list of all the nagging little projects that needed to be done and maybe even tackle a few of them. (I told the house to f@#k off.)

What to do? What to do?

Thankfully, I listened carefully to my inner voice (okay, voices) and the loudest and clearest message came straight from the SLUTS within. "Call up a friend and go antiquing." So I did. We browsed, we laughed, we dreamed.

Then, we just happened to upon a free wine tasting.

Guess that inner voice was right on.

Strictly Need-to-Know

Late fall and winter are what I think of as "airplane season." It's about the only time of year I fly for work, and when I do, I always like a window seat. I like to see what's down below as we zoom overhead, and imagine the lives of the people down there.

But I've also found that I'd like to know exactly what I'm flying over as I pass. What's the name of that town? What's that river? Who's crop circles are those? (I'm sure there's an app for that, but I'm not exactly a "first adopter" for technology.)

I'm not sure where this need to know comes from. Maybe I just like to have my bearings. But I do find that I'm more interested in what I'm passing as I travel than what's going to happen when I get there. Is this a "live for the moment" mentality? A fear of the future? Or am I just usually too preoccupied with the lingering questions from the homefront to think too far ahead?

"Did I leave the milk out? Is the coffee pot on? Did my family get to their respective daily destinations without breaking anything?" These are the questions that rattle quietly around in the back of my mind as I travel. On this last trip, the break count was two items — my daughter's soap dispenser and my husband's ankle. Par for the course.

I think perhaps my focus on the present also comes from a healthy realization that I don't want to know what's going to happen next. Information about the future is indeed a stressful thing, whether it's keeping a surprise party a secret, not telling co-workers that you overheard they're being laid off, realizing that you're responsible for classroom snacks for an entire week next month, knowing that your best friend has a little spinach in her teeth and not being able to signal to her across a crowded room before she goes to talk to that great-looking man.

These are all small things, so the knowledge of knowing the big things in advance, like when you will die, would be too overwhelming. Talk about the stress of planning the perfect outfit!

No, I prefer to coast. Do I have hopes for the future? Of course. Do I plan for it? You bet. Would I want to see into the future, given the chance? No way.

I like to know as much as possible about the here and now, and the week or two to come. But as for the bigger future, I'm happy with a strictly need-to-know basis.

Why motherhood will end war

Today I sat on a plane to Memphis, Tennessee, next to a young man bound for two-week's leave from his post in Iraq. He was on his way home to surprise his mama. You gotta love that.

Michael is 19, has been in Iraq for 9 months and has 9 more to go on this tour. He showed me some photos on his My Space page of Kuwait and Iraq, and shared some chocolates he had picked up in Germany on his way home. (Those Germans know their chocolates. That was some fabulous stuff.)

Talking with Michael made me realize two somewhat life-altering things.

First, I'm old enough to be his mother. That was truly an ah-ha moment - and not in a good way. I'm used to thinking of my self as mother to my 8 and 3-year-old kids. But technically, I could be the mother of a 19-year-old kid, on his way home to surprise me.

That thought led to another thought: I wanted Michael to stay home, go to college, find a nice girl, have some kids and find a way to add to a peaceful, caring world. I wanted him to be safe. And although I've never met her, I'm pretty sure his mama feels the same way.

I bet the mothers of soldiers all over the world feel that way, too. Yes, we are proud that our sons and daughters are brave and are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the ideals we believe in, but we'd much rather they didn't.

Suppose that all the mothers in the world put their collective feet down, and said, with one hand on a hip and the other brandishing a cooking implement that suited their culture,"You are NOT going to go out and get into fight with those other kids! And if I hear about you doing anything like that, you'll wish it WAS world war three!"

I bet we'd have one helluva peaceful planet.

Godspeed, Michael. May you return safely.