I walk around at home in search of five- or 10-minute blocks of time to myself. My quest involves a lot of handing a drooling baby back and forth between the two of us when Dave’s home, and praying the cat-napper to whom I gave birth stays asleep long enough for me to use the bathroom. It’s filling my arms with dirty clothes and toys and shoes and sticky, empty cups on my way to the kitchen so I can have an excuse to pour some water into a glass and drink it alone before Abby sees and demands her own sippy cup.

Just. Five minutes. I don’t ask for much.

Dave gets a few hours to himself between 7:30 a.m., when he’s watching “Dinosaur Train” with Abby before we head out the door for the sitter’s, and going to work at his second-shift job around 1. Now, granted he often (he’d argue I meant to say “always”) spends the morning doing my bidding (laundry and sometimes cleaning the bathroom when I ask nicely and wink at him to remind him I really love him and care that he’s also tired and busy, I do care, I really do).

But it’s alone time. And his Facebook status gets updated while laundry’s in the dryer, does it not? I REST MY CASE.

That’s my point – he gets to do these things without someone clinging to his leg – and without feeling like he should be feeling guilty about not playing with that someone clinging to his leg.

So I get to grocery shop alone on Saturdays. And, wow. That’s a treat. Go on, be jealous. What a purely enjoyable way to spend an hour. Exactly what I had in mind.

Right.

So, realizing that wasn’t enough to keep me from weeping beside a rainy windowpane (or whatever it is people do when they have time to mope), I stopped eating lunch by my desk at work, fleeing for the breakroom.

It sounds ridiculous. People have been doing this for decades. But really – I hide in the breakroom that once used to creep me out because of its constant off-smell. I look forward to that smell now, because it means an hour with no babies, no laundry, no errands. No grocery shopping. No clipping coupons. No dog to let outside, wait, he wants back inside, wait, just kidding! outside he goes again, over and over again for an hour.

Spending the break at home would be no break. Any mom can tell you that.

So, forgive me if I, at 1:30 p.m., am already daydreaming about all the reading I can do the next day at 12:30.

Yes, yes, thank you for pointing out how lame that is. But really. You guys – ONE HOUR. It almost makes going back to work worth every tear I shed a few weeks ago. Almost.

Seriously. An hour. Now you can be jealous.