We've found a little place of our own in Toronto--room at the front for him to draw, room at the the back for me to sleep, room in the middle for us to eat--and are plotting our master entertainment system, talking about buying household goods from the Blue Banana in Kensington Market and silently trying to wrap our heads around the ease with which we still come together. He takes things logically, not looking too far into the future, and I let my brain run away with "what if"s and "one day"s and we meet somewhere in the middle, when I ask him for reassurance that this is what he wants, and he looks at me and smiles and reminds me that it is, indeed, the right thing for both of us right now. More than that is impossible to ascertain, and he will not be pinned down. I am proud of him and simultaneously terrified that he refuses to look to the future because he refuses to commit himself to me. I wage war with my insecurity daily and somehow, I usually win.
Ten days after we move in, I'll be on the schedule by myself, as an RN, working Labour & Delivery. Responsible for handing expectant parents their child for the first time. Responsible for answering the most mundane of questions: "how much do babies poop" and the most impossible of questions: "why did my baby die days before his due date?" I will not return to school this September, will not worry about how I'll be able to afford rent and life in a city which grows more expensive daily. I will not have four weeks off at Christmas, will be lucky to get either Christmas or New Years off; even more lucky to be able to go home and see my family. This year I will, for the first time, have my own Christmas tree with the beginning of a family of my own. I will enter the ranks of those who have 2 weeks' vacation every year.
I am happy.
I am afraid.
I am growing up.