The best and worst thing about working from home is that I'm close to my kids

• I used to have a one-hour commute to and from work. Now, I measure my commute in seconds.
• I work from home with two young children. Their presence is both a blessing and a nuisance.
• I sometimes miss my long commute, where I could have some guilt-free time for myself.

My kids, 2 and 4, are a lot less sneaky than they think they are.

My home office door is pretty thin so I often hear them snickering, whispering, and tiptoeing in the hallway.

Sometimes I'll hear paper crinkle under the door and look down to find a hand-drawn picture. Sometimes I'll find a necklace made of Cheerios and dental floss hanging from the door knob.

It's the best thing about working from home — having my kids close by.

On the other hand, in addition to the cute snickers and whispers, I can hear them arguing. Sometimes it's about a toy, sometimes a book. Sometimes it's because they've decided to boycott food, sleep, or shoes.

On those days, the worst thing about working from home is having my kids close by.

Don't get me wrong, I want the Cheerio necklaces. I like working from home. It's just that sometimes I'd like a little less home in my work.

Back when I worked in an office, I had plenty of distance between my personal and professional lives

I worked about 25 miles away, and it took me an hour to make it home each day.

I'd leave my desk, walk down the hall, open a door, get on an elevator, open four more doors, walk through the parking garage, open my car door, and spend the next 60 minutes skating across hot asphalt, swerving to miss potholes, cursing at mistimed traffic lights, and generally miserable and stressed.

Still, I kind of miss it.

There was something therapeutic about being locked in a car for an hour

I could listen to podcasts or music. I could sit in silence. I could be alone with my thoughts. I could decompress from the workday, reenergize, and gear up for a fun night with the kids. It was 60 minutes of doing whatever the hell I wanted, as long as I didn't break any traffic laws.

Now I measure my commute in seconds: I stand up from my desk, walk three paces to the office door, and turn the knob. There's no decompressing from the workday. There's no reenergizing. I barely have time to yawn before I'm back in the thick of parenting, changing diapers, and picking up toys.

I know these are good problems to have, and I'm not clamoring for another two-hour round trip to work each day. I cherish the extra minutes I get at home with my family.

I just liked having some guilt-free time to myself, which is what my commute gave me — twice a day, five days a week — albeit in a weird, abusive kind of way, like tying someone to a chair and forcing them to eat ice cream.

I can recreate some of the good things about my commute at home

I'm trying to be more intentional about building personal time into my daily routine. I've started to set aside a few minutes at the end of each shift to decompress and reacclimate to my home environment.

On some days, I'll pay our nanny to stick around a little longer so I can go for a jog while listening to music. I'm getting my podcast fix while doing the dishes or cutting the grass.

I could always start commuting to the office again. I could pay for the extra two hours of childcare, pack up my lunch, hop into my car, and trudge 25 miles down the interstate, dodging potholes along the way.

However, as soon as I do, I know I'll miss those extra minutes at home and those hushed hallway conversations. Maybe I'll even miss the tantrums.

And at some point, amid the roadwork and stalled cars, I'll look at my rearview mirror and wish there was a Cheerio necklace hanging from it.