R and I had a pretty traditional male/female division of labor. He worked full time; I worked at home, part-time, and spent the other part tending to our children. I packed lunches, did the laundry, made sure the kids’ fish didn’t die of starvation, and tried hard to create birthday-party goody bags that made my kids happy and the other mothers envious. R fixed things, could lift an air conditioner, was completely in charge of anything involving our car, and didn’t flinch when faced with a water bug the size of his shoe.

So, naturally, the minute R moved out, my life turned into an I Love Lucy episode. For example:

• The toilet wouldn’t shut the hell up and needed a new stopper thingie, forcing me to stick my hand in the tank for the first time ever.

• I got lost on the Garden State Parkway (which, in my defense, has very poor signage), and cried in front of my children while cursing and smacking the steering wheel.

• Our house became infested with mice, and the pricey “no-touch” traps I purchased proved useless. The classic snap traps worked really well, though, so I spent mornings wading bleary-eyed through a mouse morgue (before the kids woke up, so they wouldn’t be traumatized). I coped with my squeamishness by donning sunglasses and rubber gloves while discarding the little rodents. Really.

But there were also a few positives to being the only grown-up in residence:

• R, who liked dinner to include all food groups, wasn’t there to disapprove when I fed the girls four-for-a-dollar Ramen noodles and didn’t bother to make a vegetable.

• Without numerous pairs of briefs and boxer shorts, tube socks and stanky t-shirts to wash, I did the laundry much less frequently.

• Even though R wasn’t prone to leaving the toilet seat up (or maybe I never cared as much as women are supposed to), it was a relief to know that at least that particular challenge was completely off the table for the foreseeable future.