Perhaps it happens during a nap, or in a house full of family, all of whom want to play. When Evan is on someone else’s watch, a switch turns off in my head.

My brain says: Hey. Are we alone? We could shower. Or eat. Or sleep. But let’s not. Let’s make a pot of hot tea, and read a book. No, a magazine. Let’s not be social. Let’s not cook, unless it’s indulgent. Let’s untwist. Please, please, please?

The irresistible pull of open-mouthed-breathing downtime can only be understood by other parents. All time to oneself is stolen, and is therefore highly precious.

You are owned by another, by one who grants packets of rest like crunchy biscuits or spoonfuls of peanut butter to a well-behaved golden retriever. You treasure it, guard it, shovel it into your soul as quickly as you can for fear that it might be taken away: the chance to be engrossed in something both unnecessary and of your own choosing.