After a month of planning, construction and worry, and with help from a host of volunteers, I successfully hosted a kids Halloween party for the single parent group to which I belong. Our basement, including Robby's room, became a mini haunted house, the upstairs a gathering place in which children ingested sugar in mass quantities and parents turned a temporarily blind eye to it.

When the real lights went down and the black and strobe lights came on, when the characters did their frightful things and the motion-activated floating skull began screeching at each youthful visitor who descended the stairs, the haunted house was a success. A little frightening - but just a little, mind you - even to Robby, who had been through it many times in the light of day. Two children even refused to come down the stairs, and were later only coaxed there when the lights came up -- a sure sign of success!

From the day the sun rose Saturday, I was stressed, moving nonstop, cleaning in preparation for a party - always a questionable activity - baking the brownies that would be rolled into objects one could easily mistake for dog poop, checking lights, putting on my costume and, as pre-party volunteers began flowing into the house, directing, directing, directing.

Every "What needs to be done?" was met with a very specific response. There was no time to waste. We faced a deadline. This is always when I am at my most focused and effective.

"It's going to be fabulous," David, another group member said. "You can relax."

But I couldn't. Matt needed an extension cord. Diana needed wax paper for the caramel apples. Sara needed tape. These were items only a homeowner could find.

So, headless-chicken style, I kept moving.

From the haunted house to the pinata, the party went off without a hitch, and with ample screams both of delight and fear.

After the basement closed for haunting, I stood in the driveway with David and another single dad.

"It was awesome!" David said. "You should be proud. And now you can relax."

"Sort of," I said, "I have a house full of people."

"They're fine," he said.

I knew that what he said was true, but as we spoke, I saw three sucked-dry silver Capri Sun packages littering the lawn. Inside, orange candies once attached to brightly decorated cupcakes dotted the carpet, the kitchen table was smeared with small hand prints, the counter gooey with caramel. Children shrieked and ran inside the house, and I, the mother of one, well-behaved 12-year-old boy, felt overwhelmed by the swell of activity.

He was right. The adults and children were fine, but I was not. Now, I wanted to clean. I wanted my house back. I wanted the month of preparation truly complete.

I felt somehow wicked, ushering the last guest out with such relief.

"Can I help you clean up?" she asked. I could see she felt guilty leaving me what the party's remnants.

"No, thank you. Really I'm just fine," I said, not adding that the best way she could help me was to leave.

I tackled the house and quickly, night time came. For a change, I slept soundly.

After breakfast today, Robby ran, as usual, next door to play.

I sat inside, thinking of all I still needed to do.

There was, for instance, the dog to be walked. I leashed Ally and walked the half block to the park. I looked up at the sky and saw, for the first time, what a truly beautiful Indian summer day it was.

I forced my step to slow, then stop, then lowered myself to the ground. I sat in the grass. And let myself be.

The breeze stirred my hair. The sun warmed my skin. Traffic on nearby Quebec hummed steadily. Occasionally, during those lovely 10 minutes or so, Ally ran to me, her mouth open in what was clearly a laugh, dropping the ball at my feet in a request for a throw. But at 11, and tires easily. Her demands were few; mostly, she lay in the shade, gnawing happily on the tennis ball.

I stared at the grass and noticed a small bee hovering above a patch of it a few feet away from me.

My thoughts meandered.

I relaxed.

I realized, too, how rare a moment it was. How infrequently I allowed myself these moments.

Months ago, I joked with my yoga instructor - then and still now my realtor - that I loved the workout aspect of yoga but hated "the part at the end where you just lay there." I felt it was a waste of time, I said, when I had so many things to do.

He smiled, that semi-amused, patient and somehow simultaneously wise smile that only few people can manage. "Consider," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Just consider for a moment, will you?" He paused. "That you never allow yourself to relax."

I laughed and gave him some lightly flippant response. I could never disrespect Mike, but the idea struck me as silly. Until later, when I thought about it again.

When I have free time, I typically think not about how I can enjoy it, but what I must do. When the newspaper sections pile up, unread, I no longer look forward to reading them as pleasure, but as an obligation. I paid for them. I must read them. E-mails become not a fun way to communicate, but obligations; I cannot neglect my friends by failing to respond in a timely manner. I consciously think about scheduling my social life. I list it among my "goals for the day," a piece of paper I print out and tape on the wall in front of my computer each morning. It is here now as I type: Goals: October 24: Schedule at least one social event this week." When Robby and I watch a movie, I cannot sit still but jump up repeatedly; there's dog hair on the floor after all, I have to get it while I see it; popcorn must be made, drinks poured and while I'm up doing those things, there are a half dozen others I can do, too.

Perhaps it's the fallout of life as a single parent and homeowner. Always something to do and clean, always somewhere to be.

Perhaps it's fear of what I will find if I stop. Maybe I'm running. From loneliness, human-to-human commitment and time.

But I suspect that while some of us are more dubiously practiced at it then others, this is something of which we all are guilty.

We forget to drop our hands, relieve ourselves of what are so often our self-imposed burdens, let the tension melt from our so frequently tired bodies. To just stop. And simply be.