I was 30 for my first pregnancy and now I am 60. I am not going to say where did the time go? I won’t say it. It’s fine. I am not going to say it.

I loved all of it.

Joe and I had our glorious twenties together, spending almost ten years studying, working, traveling, and just having tons of fun. Then when I was hitting 30, we had our first perfect baby.

I was a happy, hungry and quite large pregnant woman, and I was a euphorically happy first time mother. At night my face would be tired from from smiling all day. I loved my baby’s little bassinet and her tiny clothes and her sweet disposition. Being her Mama was the most delightful occupation.

We doted on our tiny perfect baby with no thoughts of adding to the family until she asked for a sibling when she was about four. Another perfect baby arrived, eyes wide open, little hands in fists. And the first adored the second, and the love continued. Stretching parenting out as long as we possibly could, we had one last perfect baby when our adored middle was six years old. Doted on by all, cheerful and loving, the last baby added more joy and laughter,

Each child was a perfect baby and they are all absolutely delightful adults.

I enjoyed every moment with my children, I sincerely did.

That’s not to say that I did not savour being left alone for a moment.

I remember when I was home schooling the lot of them and the kids played an April’s Fool’s trick on me, telling me that there was a package in the mailbox. They giggled away, I imagine, as I pulled on my boots, coat, hat and mitts to make my way to the mailbox. I never did tell them that the quiet and peace of the walk was actually a real gift. I still remember it.

My eldest commented once that I am likely to disappear when they are all engaged in a game, and she is right. There is nothing more peaceful than knowing your kids are all busy and happy, but that you are not necessary to the chaos. You can rest, you can read, you can putter. Alone.

Precious time alone knowing that everyone is happy.

Many of my friends and family have sweetly asked after my state of mind this fall, as I enter into the first autumn without children in my home. Not one child, no returning adults, not a teen, just me and Joe and a selection of rescued cats.

I am alright about the empty nest, most of the time. I have been sad, and I have listened to Billie Elish’s What I am Good For one too many times. It sure is a lovely mournful song.

But I do love my alone time.

My husband and I lived for almost a decade without children so we know how to live together and, to be honest, it is a simpler life. There is plenty of time to fulfill your own needs and look after your partner too.

But I do love my alone time.

Do I talk to myself, yes, but cheerfully. When I am alone I feel like I am about thirteen years old. Just bumbling along doing my thing, writing poems, doing chores.

Sometimes engaging with friends, and that includes Joe, where we chat madly and exuberantly about multitudes of topics.

And then back to me, where I am just me.

And I am not expected to do anything for anyone. I don’t have to organize appointments for anyone, or think of ways to increase someone’s health or happiness, or negotiate with anyone on any subject.

And I do what I want. I diddle and I doddle, and sometimes I write, because I have since I was a kid.