The letter came in the mail today. We made it; real registered midwives. Legitimate baby-catchers. Members of a long-standing-century-spanning tribe. How surreal that the single day I’ve been waiting for, sacrificing sleep and friends and fun for, arrived in the form of a mail-man walking up the porch stairs while I sipped green tea and avoided packing my life into boxes again.
How strange that it is simply the passing of time that results in these milestones of our lives: before I was one thing, now another. Before I could run one kilometre, now twenty. It’s not really effort and ego, but the movement of the earth around the sun. In the winter I was a student struggling and grumpy and now it is solstice time and the trees are green and I am somehow transformed. Boundaries between one-time and another marked by stamps, thin paper, and long days of sun and light.
I am a midwife. Despite my efforts to control the transition and mark the occasion my way through party planning, gift-appealing, and targeted red-wine drinking, the true passing of time occurred just now, quiet and alone at home. New life defined by dogs barking and house painters laughing. The letter carrier has strolled away down the street. Is he aware that today his job was to deliver change into my arms?