Time for themselves, time to themselves, time to rest and relax and recouperate and regenerate.
Time to get back to the person she is outside "mom" - the woman who's something more than healer of boo-boos and reader of bedtime stories, sidewalk chalk artist and swim instructor, activity coordinator and scheduler and referee, chauffeur and chef and cleaning crew, carrier of crayons and wipes and racecars and stuffies and extra bottles of water and snacks.
The woman who loves her husband and children more than anything else in this world but aches for five minutes to herself without worrying about the household budget, how to juggle next week's sports schedule, the politics of parent council, breaking up arguments between bickering brothers or answering cries of "Mom" every three seconds.
I suck at taking alone time. I don't do it. Ever.
But yesterday I did. For the first time in a decade, I took a couple of hours all to myself.
Not after the kids went to bed at night. Not by waking up extra early and creeping downstairs alone. Not to pull out my endless to-do list and start ticking off items. Not to catch up on paperwork and assignments.
Just a couple of hours alone in the middle of the afternoon.
It was heavenly.
My husband and the children were otherwise occupied, and for the first time ever I walked away.
I pulled out a book, poured a glass of wine, put on a floaty sundress and set myself up in the back garden. Alone.
For two blissful hours I sat in silence, soaking up the sunshine, sipping at my wine, giggling away with Bridget Jones (I tend to read the same books over and over and over again) and feeling more in touch with myself than I have in years.
What a treat for a tired full-time mom. What a lovely way to spend an afternoon. What a wonderful way to fuel up the energy reserves for the next decade of Mommying.