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.