Once upon a time, several lifetimes ago, I had the hangout apartment. If you were bored or lonely or stoned-and-just-happening-to-be-walking-by, you could appear at my door and be welcomed.

Once upon a time, fewer lifetimes go, I had the party apartment. If a group gathered, you could appear at my door and be welcomed.

Not even once upon a time, I have always, still, dreamed of having the house where neighborhood kids are running in and out, where the door is always open to worn-out parents, and the joys and sorrows of friendship flourish.

This is not the life I currently lead.

In my third-floor apartment in the neighborly city of Pittsburgh, the only people who casually ring my doorbell are the Jehovah’s Witnesses. It is in this quiet apartment that I live my nonverbal, non-mobile toddler, whom I publicly call Wee Dude. Just us, my festering extroversion, and Gilmore Girls.

Becoming an extroverted single parent of a nonverbal, non-mobile child was to plunge head-first into my greatest fear: loneliness, and one that I could not have even imagined, and one that I’d spent the rest of my life avoiding, especially as a single woman, a demographic for whom loneliness is a brutal cultural stereotype.

To even admit that feels shameful; I chose both single parenthood as well as WD himself – a charming, beautiful little boy, whom I adore, and whom I adopted knowing he had a host of developmental delays. I have loving relationships with family and friends. A congenial workplace. An active church life. If anything, life is full, brimming.

The guilt hammer of my brain says that to not love everything about my situation is a disservice to both of us. (Do you listen to everything your brain tells you? my therapist might ask.) But I didn’t realize when I welcomed him into my home and my heart that doing so meant he’d take up most of my time without the ability to scratch that life-long itch for human banter, leaving me off-kilter in a way that is as emotionally painful for me as a never-ending toddler onslaught is for introverts.

Part of my experience is the seemingly universal loneliness of early parenthood. People who go to bed before 8pm are generally not very entertaining and kind of have you trapped at home once they are asleep.



Another part is that, in some ways, two-year-old WD is still in infancy, a stage of life I generally find boring. In other ways, we are just on Wee Dude Time, and each hard-won micro-accomplishment is worthy of fanfare and social media updates (which brings an onslaught of human connection): his dimpled smiles, throaty laughs, grumpy eyebrows, when he started sitting again or purposefully reaching at toys or standing in his gait trainer.

Yet another part is that, between March and October of 2015, the following happened to my local social circle: one couple divorced and my primary friend moved home to another state; one couple brutally fell apart, and I witnessed part of it, which brought a swift end to socializing; one friend birthed twins; one couple moved out-of-state for a new job; I ended my on-again-off-again relationship; and a friend’s mother died unexpectedly.

So then it was just us. Me and WD with only seven months of knowing each other under our belts and occasional visits from caseworkers (foster agency, county CPS, adoption placement) and WD’s four weekly Early Intervention therapists (PT, OT, vision, hearing) to keep us company, all of whom also eventually went away. Everyone else reached out via text message and social media, but they all seemed to be trying desperately to keep themselves above water.

To deal with the loneliness I couldn’t even yet name, I began more earnestly to banter on both my and WD’s behalves, commenting on whatever I was reading or the text messages I received or speaking his presumed mind about how I’m not as funny as I think I am (I’m hilarious). And we started watching reruns of Gilmore Girls because the double-stuffed dialogue provided a close-enough simulacrum of a full apartment, and the show itself is warm, comfortable and familiar, all the feelings that friends-in-the-flesh provide.



My endless cadre of introvert friends find this nearly insatiable need for interaction baffling. And what a parent of a toddler wouldn’t give for evenings of relative quiet: no arguments over dinner, no toy-strewn living room, no asking for one more story or drink of water or hug. Those things can drive a parent batty. But they’re also the whole point.

This isn’t about being alone. I can be alone: rainy afternoons reading, long drives, mornings to myself since I was as young as four. This is about imbalance. For the hours I spend talking with WD, playing the parts of both of us, I absolutely cling to those fleeting moments when I’m not orchestrating his response. Those are what I’m actually looking for. And though I find those moments in the incremental growth he is making, it doesn’t substitute for the expectation that a lifetime of being the social one inadvertently set for what it would be like when I decided to share my life.

So, then, Gilmore Girls. The show is bright and effervescent; I know it so well that I can talk at it in a way that the characters themselves seem to respond. The plots cement the irrational ferocity of maternal love, even against all odds, in ways that no amount of text messages can. The show had become, in a way, a gift from the universe that says, I know you are very lonely, but you are not alone. WD, I’m sure, would agree.