This is a post I wrote a few weeks ago.

I love being alone. The television is rarely on, the trees isolate the house from outside noise, and I prefer this. I prefer quiet. I spend hours in my head thinking, lost in my own mind, and I am happy this way.

I’ll walk through my house, passing empty room after empty room, and wonder what life would be with a house full of little feet and sticky hands.

Admittedly, I stress over the chaos. Grape jelly smeared on the chairs and doors. Dog hair, crayon murals, and fighting children flashing before my eyes.

And then I think about sloppy kisses, laughter, watching them grow and thrive. I look into empty rooms and I see a full house, filled with colorful bedding, waded up clothing, and toys scattered everywhere.

I think that would be nice. Chaotic, messy, and stressful, but nice.

I’ll think about Brielle, her long legs quickly crawling across the room, her babbling, her sloppy kisses. And I think, that would be nice. I’d give anything to wipe her sticky hands. To wake up in the middle of the night with her. I’d give anything for her noise, her chaos, her love.

I walk through my orderly, empty house, and realize just how lonely and empty life is without sticky fingers. And I feel alone. I feel empty.