By Patricia Gallagher Newberry
Enquirer contributor

I love my husband. I love my children. I love being a "Married with Children." Let me get that on the record.

But sometimes I fantasize about being single again.

Not young and single. Been there. Done that. Wasn't too good at it the first time around.

Not 40-something and single. If suddenly single tomorrow, I'd be a wreck. I'd have to lose 20 pounds, bleach my teeth and get one of those fringy layered hairdos to even think about dating again.

In my fantasy, I am older and single. And I'm not remotely interested in dating.

I am 60, maybe 65. I live in a charming stone cottage in a small Irish village with a view of the seashore. (Hey, it's my fantasy. I can live where I want.)

I am, naturally, a youngish 60 or 65. I am vibrant. I am healthy. And most of all, I am alone - contentedly, blissfully, purposefully alone.

I walk on my seashore each morning. I spend a few hours reading before lunch. I walk to the village shops for my provisions. I nap or garden or knit in the afternoon. I walk on the shore again in the late afternoon. I dine in town, or not, and return to a quiet cottage to sleep soundly.

The kids, well into their adult years, can visit anytime, of course. The grandkids will be welcome, too, so long as they don't bicker like their parents did.

My husband will be a regular guest. I might even give him a key to the cottage. Maybe he could live next door.

I will have friends, too, loads and loads of friends with plenty of time to see them. I'll invite them for tea and scones. We'll go to Dublin for theater. I'll have a few walking partners. I'll join a book club and take up photography.

Maybe I'll get a dog. A standard poodle might be nice. I understand they don't shed.

But whenever I feel like it, I will bar the door of my cottage, banish the kids and husband, put out the friends and dog, and have just me for company.

I won't have to rinse anyone's hair or supervise anyone's homework. I won't have to clear anyone's dishes or wash anyone's soccer uniform. I won't have to share my side of the bed with someone who's scared or share my tea and scones with someone who's hungry.

When I really was single, I couldn't wait to couple. By age 25 or 26, I was screening men as potential spouses on the first date.

A few months after I got married, at 28, it dawned on me that my husband was now my permanent date and he wasn't ever going back to his own apartment. Luckily, he learned not to take my need for occasional solitude too personally.

Kids, I quickly learned, weren't so accommodating. When they want your attention - which is all the time - they want it now, not after you've had a chance to get in the house, take off your shoes and check the mail.

They haven't the faintest idea why I sigh heavily when they come back downstairs after they are supposed to be asleep and steal the few minutes of time I steal alone at the end of the day. They are insulted when I close the bathroom door in their faces. They scoff at my suggestion to play the quiet game ("Let's see who can be quiet the longest.") in the car.

I love my husband. I love my children. Does daydreaming about a life in which they are mere visitors make me a bad wife and mother? Does my Irish fantasy expose me as a self-centered, indulgent martyr?

Maybe. But really, I'm just a tired parent who craves a bit more of sweet solitude.

I'll no doubt pass on Ireland when 60 or 65 arrives. Too far from my home; too hard on my heart.

A small get-away shed in the back yard, however, remains a strong possibility.

E-mail Patricia Gallagher Newberry at newgal@marriedwchildren.com.