It’s not about the pie

Summers are a logistical challenge for families with young kids – a sort of calendar Twister, where you must line up dates with camps and trips before losing your mind (or child). As our key move, we decided to visit friends in my homeland, Lithuania, from where I would return home a week ahead of my family, allowing us NOT to book yet another day camp for our girls.

On my last day, as a thank-you and a farewell to our hosts, I baked this good ’ol Amer’can apple pie. The next morning, I got on a plane. Full of anxiety and white wine, I somehow made it over the big blue ocean, and then I was home. Alone.

In the beginning there was nothing.

The house was very-very quiet, and on the first day I really-really enjoyed it! On the second day, I got drinks with a friend. On the fourth day, I went shopping (but my shopping stamina is rather low, so in reality I moped around the house). On the fifth day I ran the dishwasher.

Ahead of me were two more days of very-very-quiet, which I kept telling myself was an amazing gift. In truth, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself.

I considered going outdoors somewhere.. but I could just as well hang out in the backyard. I perused the new movie releases.. but why go to see a movie I’m not particularly interested in, when there are hundreds of movies I’m not particularly interested in on Netflix. I could go to a cafe… but I have a perfectly capable caffeine contraption at home. I could walk to an ice-cream shop… but… ok, I could actually do that.

What I’ve learned, to my great surprise, is that I’ve forgotten how to be alone. Correction – I don’t believe I’ve ever truly been alone! And it turns out that I’m truly terrible at it. Right now, I’m just trying to make it to day 7, when I can bake a pie for my family’s homecoming.