I’ve read enough parenting books to understand that modeling behavior is often the most effective way of teaching kids how to comport themselves in the world. Want your kids to say please and thank you? Then make sure you are also using those magic words. (This is still only guaranteed to work 12% of the time, if you’re lucky. But keep trying. At least that’s what I tell myself.) There are all sorts of other examples, and they aren’t necessarily behavior related. Sometimes kids need to see what their parents enjoy doing, to figure out who those parents are, and to help figure out what kinds of people they, in turn, want to be.

And it struck me recently that Scarlett must have no idea how much I used to enjoy spending time alone. After all, she never sees me do it.

I’m not talking about when I wheel into my bedroom to read a book on my iPad and escape the madness of our full house for half an hour. I’m not talking about my angsty teen years, partially spent listening to Tori Amos and Pearl Jam in my attic bedroom, craving the solitude that one needs when they share a bathroom with 5 other people.

I’m talking about being a person who traveled in Europe alone, happily eating pasta loaded with seafood at a restaurant in Monaco, overlooking the water; rolling solo into a hostel in Rome and downing beers in a piazza later that night with 4 new friends. A person who has gone to concerts alone, lived alone (bliss, except for Sunday nights, somehow the loneliest times.) A person who has spent days walking across cities alone, stopping in bookstores, shopping for clothes, not always requiring, or even desiring, the company of someone else.

That isn’t my norm, it’s just something I sometimes need. I love people, and I’ve done way more traveling, concert-going, and dining in the company of friends.

I grew up surrounded, and I don’t mean that in a bad way. The oldest of 4 kids, with tons of aunts and uncles and (eventually) 18 little cousins in and around the general area, I knew what it meant to be social. People walked into our house all the time, and on my jogs around town, I would often appear on a family member’s doorstep, looking for a break and a glass of water. I loved our big family parties, any excuse a chance to celebrate. It’s Tuesday? Dinner for 15 at Nana’s.

So I know what it is to be around people. And I know what it is to be alone. I like both options very much, but I only get to elect one of them these days. Since my pneumonia-enforced hospital stay, I’m no longer even able to spend afternoons wheeling Scarlett around our neighborhood. I can’t seem to get very far away from my cough assist device without feeling nervous and uncomfortable. That’s partly (maybe mostly) mental at this point, but it’s true that ever since this disease settled into my body, my world has gotten smaller, and—at times—more crowded.

I worry that if Scarlett doesn’t know this important thing about me—that I can be happy alone—then maybe she won’t realize that she can be happy alone.

Then it occurs to me that even though she’s an only child, she already knows what it is to need alone time. She certainly knows what it is to have a house full of people, here to visit, here to help. She loves having guests, and loves to be among friends. But I need to remind myself that she also loves to go to her room and just be quiet for a while. No Pearl Jam just yet, though her version of that will no doubt come.

I have a vision of her, years in the future, sitting in a cafe in Paris, alone with her espresso and a book. At least for a few hours, until it’s time to go meet up with her friends.

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