My 4-year-old and I took a trip down memory lane last month. My memory lane, that is, since we were visiting the city of her birth, which we left when she was 15 months old, and of course she has no recollection.Boy, I sure do. It was two days of utter nostalgia. The city, Cincinnati, where I’d become a mom. I moved there from Washington as a single woman in her late-30s, but knew I wanted to start a family, so I bought a big four-bedroom house upon arrival and got myself to the nearest fertility clinic. A couple of years later and my world seemed complete – a baby girl, a small circle of friends, my home and job. My home was lovely and large, the benefit of moving to the Midwest from DC, where housing had cost a fortune. I worked from home so was with my baby constantly, and our neighborhood was walkable. The children’s bookstore and café, where I’d taken her as a 13-day old, one of our first non-doctor outings. Later it became one of my favourite haunts, as I built our library of picture books, Eric Carle and Sandra Boynton, and Dan Zane CDs for the car. The café nearby, where I took her as an infant and toddler, sharing french fries and macaroni and cheese. The old fashioned ice cream shoppe with silver parfait bowls and handmaid chocolates. The playground in a vast green park (and the bridge she’d fallen off as a precocious 10 month old runner). The wide streets and big trees, the shops, the church, the friends.
As I visited, it all seemed so good. I live now in Toronto, a much more expensive city, and am a single mother of two, not one. I no longer work from home. I have less money, less house, less time, less energy. I’m in the slog years of parenting, not those honeymoon months with the first doted-upon baby.
Those lovely 15 months as a new mother in the U.S. Midwest. Oh, how lovely it all seemed. I wandered the streets with Claire, towing her behind me, unable to revisit it all fast enough. I took photos of her outside our old house, showed her the bookstore and toystore and ice cream shop. We had lunch in our old café. I pointed and talked and guided, and she was willing if a little mystified. This is where you were born. That building – the blue one – was where you were conceived. I remember bringing you here when you were a tiny baby. These were our friends. She was the first person to meet you after Grandma. This is where we lived, just you and I, a lifetime ago.
We left because I had to come home to Canada. My mom had had a heart surgery and painful slow recovery that scared me to death. My God, what was I doing halfway around the world when my real life was happening at home? I’d lived in five cities from Australia to Washington and Cincinnati. Two visits home a year were not going to do the trick. Priorities were reevaluated. Family comes first, the job comes after. Pack the bags, sell the house, we’re coming home.
And so we are. Home. Where Anna was conceived and born, closer to my parents, within the reach of family. After a decade traveling and adventure, home. Where my circle of friends is so much broader, my philosophy of life better suited, my heart more at ease. Where work is harder but less interesting, my children are among cousins, and my future is certain. Among family.
When we crossed the border on the way back, Claire spotted the flag and knew we were back in Canada. Her little sister was waiting for us at home, watched over by Grandma – healthy and happy – and Grandpa, fixing the back deck in my absence. Everyone happy to see the weary travelers, and a home-cooked meal waiting for us. A 12 hour drive from a million years ago to the presents. From nostalgia to real life. We’re home.