I am completely alone.

Not my-daughter's-at-school alone, not my-family-is otherwise-occupied alone. No, I have come to Downeast Maine to spend a weekend utterly alone. No child to dress, drive around, or Polly Pocket with; no husband to negotiate duty with; no dog to feed, walk, or pet. Just me, the four coats I loaded into the rental car (it's April in New England, after all), and a fresh notebook to inspire me to dig out the person buried alive under marriage and motherhood.

The reactions from people when I told them of my impending solo weekend at the Twilite Motel (yes, really) ranged from envy to encouragement to concern, each emotion reflecting the speaker's state of mind. "Is everything okay?" "Don't even tell me that..." "You guys aren't splitting up?" And my favorite, "Who's going to take care of Maxine?" (Uh, her father.) My husband not only encouraged my time away, he came up with the idea of the road trip and the inexpensive motel, harkening back to our younger days when our only concern was where the next bookstore was, or where one might find a decent meal in the middle of Nevada. And traveling alone? To a destination where no one awaited my arrival? The last time I did that was 17 years ago, when I traveled to a country where I did not speak the language and had no idea what it would be like to live so far from the familiar.

Okay, so the idea of a solo weekend felt a little strange. When was the last time I had no one to talk out my feelings with? With my mom network fully in place, there was always a voice at the other end of the line that had insight, encouragement; we will get through this, have another glass of wine. But to be alone with just the voice inside my head? I haven't really heard it in the five years since Maxine was born. Sure, I've had getaways, "girls' weekend," but as one friend said: that's just taking the show on the road. Hell, I wasn't even sure I wanted to hear the voice in my head. I was afraid of what it might say.

I had arrived at a crossroads. We had our child, our only child. I needed to, and wanted to, work more than a few hours here and there. My days of playdates and playgrounds were coming to a bittersweet end. I struggled with the idea of keeping Maxine at preschool for longer days, and in the end realized that the person whose life changed the most was my own. Most of my mom friends were still at home raising their second or third child, and since we had decided to have one child my transition was coming earlier than others. I not only felt like I was leaving Maxine, I was leaving my friends as well. Even after years of a having a child, I haven't quite adjusted to the one fact that remained constant: whenever you thought you finally had things under control, change was lurking around the corner.

So here I am in the Twilite Motel. I've always seen myself as an independent woman, and as one friend said as I was touting the benefits of only having one child: "You like your space, don't you?" Yes, I do like my space. A lot. But this feels different. I'm older than I was in my carefree traveling days, so I brought my own sheets from home and I rented a midsize car to drive up here in. (God forbid that on my solo weekend away something happens and I leave my child without a mother—talk about guilt that goes with you to your grave. Literally.) I check under the bed. I watch TV. I get takeout instead of ordering in so that the delivery person doesn't figure out I'm alone. I drive around today, make my own schedule, attempt to focus on my writing, and at 5 o'clock I am restless. The phone rings and my heart leaps; it's my family. They tell me about their day; they're having fun. I miss them.

Two weeks earlier I thought I was going insane. I was crying, depressed, lost, and could barely stand to be around the people that I love more than anything. I felt that any creative energy I had was being sucked out of me by the constant needs of others. And to top it off, I felt guilty about feeling so depressed and resentful. Now that I am away I can see very clearly how all of the pieces of my life fit together. Being alone does not necessarily equal productivity and creative rivers flowing. In my worst moments of mental overload at home, I thought that my life would be perfect if I was alone in my own little apartment, preferably in Paris, with only myself to take care of. But up here at the Twilite Motel I feel a little...lonely.

When I originally pictured myself on this grand weekend I envisioned gleefully cruising up the Maine coast, radio turned up (sorry Dan Zanes, you're not invited on this road trip), going where the roads took me. I have cruised with glee, but when there's no little voice chiming in from the backseat, begging you to be the airplane driver, there's a whole lot of room for that damn inner voice. I realize with not-too-reluctant resignation that there is no "me" anymore, at least, not the one I used to know. Once you have a child, there is always an "us", whether you are with your child or 5,000 miles away. And over the course of time, that "us" morphs into a different kind of "me"—so that the person you thought was buried under commitment and motherhood remerges as someone else. Someone stronger and more defined not only by her own needs and desires, but by the constant caring of all the little personalities she corrals around every day. (Even if half the time you wonder where the hell that stronger woman is and could she show her sorry self once in a while and help out with dinner?)

At one bookshop I browse, the owner is on the phone, telling someone that it is her daughter's birthday and she will be leaving early that day. As we chat I learn that her daughter is turning 18, and I tell her about my four-year old. A kind of camaraderie ensues, and she takes obvious pleasure in my decision to fly solo for a few days, appreciating my alone time like only another mother could. When her friend enters, the owner cries out, "Jane, we've got an escaped mother in the store!" which leads to more shared stories and wistful memories on their part, and clarity on mine that Maxine's childhood is such a short, sweet chapter in my life, and by no means the whole book.

On Sunday morning I head home early. Did I return to my family on a cloud of love? Willing to play Polly Pockets for hours until I was blind from the efforts of fitting those miniscule shoes on even smaller feet? Not exactly. But instead of seeing my family as separate from my creative goals, I try (really, really try) to look at them as complementary. And I've given up the assumption that a small apartment to myself is the answer to my creative growth, at least for now, but a yearly solo sojourn to the Twilite Motel might make the rivers flow a little easier.

Meganne Fabrega is a freelance writer and book reviewer who lives in Portsmouth, NH with her accordion-playing husband Alfonso, her mermaid-loving daughter Maxine, their lazy Boston Terrier and a fish named Crystal. In addition to her writing, Meganne has been a bookkeeper, a baker, a technical proofreader, a bookseller, a copywriter, a production manager, and an avid seller of all things vintage on eBay. When she's not scheming about a new career, she can be found with her nose in a book, bargaining at the local flea market, or baking up some tasty treats. She has a different answer every day to her daughter's favorite question: "Mom, what do you want to be when you grow up?"