This summer, we made the remarkably difficult decision for me to accept a very good job in the U.S., to uproot, leave our home and friends and family, and move not only to a new city, but an entirely new country.
The decision made sense.
It is my absolute dream job. We’ve always wanted to try living in a big city, particularly on the west coast, which we love. The kids are still young enough that they will adapt to this big change. There are no deep friendships or school ties we will be wrenching them away from. The job will afford my family a degree of financial freedom that will have a profound impact on most aspects of our lives, which money, for better or worse, invariably has the power to achieve.
It was the right decision.
But of course it was still an excruciating one to make, particularly as a parent. I will be working more. I will have to commute. We will be leaving behind close friends, a very close family, and the kids’ four grandparents. This is precious time. These are precious years. And I want to be spending them with my family. I’m concerned my new job will borrow some very dear minutes indeed.
But it was the right decision.
So we weighed the options, came to the most logical conclusion, which was that I most definitely should accept the position, and we started getting ready. I quit my (very good) job, we found tenants to live in our home, we sold some of our stuff and donated plenty more.
It hurt, but it was still the right decision.
But now, thanks to an immigration technicality, our move is delayed by five weeks. Five weeks of beautiful opportunities to spend time with grandparents and siblings and friends. Five weeks to soak up the charm and beauty of what remains of this enchanted Saskatoon summer. But also five weeks of agony. Of second- and third-guesses, of scrutiny and questioning and doubt. Because no matter how clear a decision may be, when your children will be affected, there will. always. be. doubt.
It’s the right decision. But I sincerely wish it would hurry the hell up already.
