Away I go

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky, —
No higher than the soul is high.

       -from Renasence by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Cub has interlinked his arm with mine, his eyes glued to Toy Story and his other hand picking individual pieces of popcorn out of the bowl, popping them in his mouth. It's movie night and we've been having a somewhat serious discussion about whether or not Buzz Lightyear can really fly. I slowly begin to ease my arm out of his, intending to run upstairs to pour a glass of wine, and he clinches his arm tighter around mine.

"I'll be right back, bud. I just want to go get a drink."
"But you can't go because I love you.
"I love you too and I'll be right back."
"You'll be right back?"
"I'll be right back."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
"Ok. Hurry."

I slip out of the room and start up the stairs, making it only a few steps before my whole body is racked by sobs.

Edmonton isn't far and it's just too far. He's slept in my bed almost every single night since the day he was born and starting in January I'll be blowing him good night kisses over Facetime.

My heart is broken.

I'm going to Edmonton. I had an opportunity to stay, with the risk that I'd have to go to later, and after weighing out all the options I've decided to go. It was my choice. And I'm so fucking sad about it. My friend told me once that when we make a choice, no matter how right it is, we might also need to mourn the nonchoice, the thing that we didn't choose. So, this is mourning. I'm trying to enjoy him so much, noting all the little things that he does, the things I take for granted when I see him every day, but if I look too closely at him I burst into tears.

I know I can do it. That we can do it. If I doubted us, or this, I wouldn't go. Pursuing this dream is expensive, in so many ways, and I am operating on blind faith. Faith in myself, in my son, in his dad, in midwifery, and in good highway driving conditions.

The end of April cannot come soon enough.

This is it.

My alarm goes off in the morning at a godawful hour but I've been laying awake for what seems like forever. Cub is awake early too. He rolls on to his stomach and brings his face up close to mine, nose to nose, and asks, in a voice that is far too enthusiastic for the still dark morning, "are the green bells gonna turn on, Mama?" The green bells is how he refers to the alarm on my phone, a description that is perfectly endearing.

We get up slowly, he clambers over me, the softness of his baby body giving way to the bony knees and elbows of a little boy. Almost two and a half, this boy of mine, and I wince as his elbow digs firmly into my ribs. He turns the light on, enthusiastically, the way he does every morning, and announces "it's the weekend!" It's Thursday, actually, and my class starts at eight.

Year two. Year two! The first morning at school is lacking all of those signature first day of class vibes. Maybe I got them out of my system last year, or during the 6 years of my first degree. I walk to class. The room is dark, no one there. A few more people show up. We linger in the hallway, chatting, familiar already with each other as though we were just there yesterday and not separated by a summer. My phone lights up with a text and we head to the right class, which is the wrong class too, but that's not the point.

It's familiar, so familiar, and in that, there is comfort. I was dreading coming back. Anxious for everything, until yesterday my heart was not in it. And then, in the first minutes of class, sitting in a semi-circle with the wonderful women who have become some of my best friends, I remembered.

This is it.

This is it.

oh hey there future

The phone rings just as I’m taking Cub down for his nap, so I swing him over to my right hip and pick up the phone.  I look at the caller ID and initially come up blank.  Then, as I recognize the area code, I can’t answer soon enough.

Hello?

Hi, is this Taryn?

I recognize her voice immediately, the distinct British accent that belongs to a young, blond woman and not to the older, gray-haired woman that I’d initially imagined.

I slide down to the floor, my back against the wall, Cub’s legs now straddling my waist.  He points to the phone and reaches for the buttons.  “Huh?” he says.

I smile at him, kiss his forehead as my eyes sting hot with tears, and try to listen.  I don’t remember the conversation.  I remember she said congratulations and full admission.  I remember saying thank you, thank you, thank you.




I get to be a midwife.