It's My Time

I'm sitting here reveling in the near silence of my home. Not silence, really, but as close as it gets in this chaos. From three separate rooms, I hear Nightline intertwined with adrenaline-prompted, Fear Factor screams between the canned laughter of that annoying fucking PBS British comedy. And hypnotic, sleep-induced breathing. Four chests rising and falling to a rhythm in my head. Four hearts...beating because I will them to beat. It's my time.

Nobody needs milk or money or a scratch right there below their shoulder. Nobody wants me to get off the phone or on the phone or to sign right here. Nobody needs a reminder that it's not ok to throw the ball at her sister's head, even if she did kick you in the face with it. Nobody is calling to tell me about the latest theory on the cause of fibromyalgia or the stress of California sales tax. It's my time.

The windows are open and the near-summer air hints of memories to come; those to be recalled and those to be made. The song of the frogs warns that soon it will be replaced by that of the summer cicadas; that familiar lull that represents my independence. The moth that lights on my monitor teases that he found his way in and will again in the months to come. It's my time.

I can immerse myself in volleyball games I've never played, pregnancies that aren't mine, vaginas known only by the initial assigned, and hot dog buns now on aisle 10. I can shower without Baby Magic. I can go out to smoke a cigarette without explaining long division or grammar rules. I can listen to my own thoughts. It's my time.

I find myself in one of those moments when I want to believe that it IS my life. I can do what I wish with it. I can be me, in spite of what everyone else wants me to be; in spite of what I pretend to be.

It's my time.