Times, they are a'changin'

It wasn’t until after I’d bought the ring that Lyrian said “do you know that symbol means change?” No, I didn’t, but it sure seems appropriate.

On Sunday at 9.30am my baby brother became a father. My parents, now grandparents; my sister and I Aunties. Our once family of five is now a family of eight. Indiana Mae has the face of an angel and I can’t help but fall a little bit more in love with her every time I see her picture.

When I think about what I was doing when I was my brother’s age, I think about milestones like graduating from university, falling in love, leaving home for the first time and travelling overseas, beginning the journey of self-discovery. Nothing like the heart-ready-to-burst love that comes with a baby so entirely dependent on you for their every need, that your life takes on a whole new meaning and importance.

My life is still all about me – what do I want, where am I going, who am I? But this is my right as a happily single woman of the world. For a parent, your wants, your desires, your needs, are a distant second to those of your child.

And the prospect of being a parent scares the hell out of me, even now at 28 (almost). But my brother David? He’s the man. I know, with more certainty than I know anything about myself, that he will be the most incredible, devoted and loving father.

And it is probably because of all the emotion that new life brings to my world, that it is with sadness that I prepare to leave Bangladesh. In only 16 weeks I pack my things and leave, unlikely to ever return. Leaving behind some amazing people, an incredible job, a culture that is both thrilling and frustrating, and heading in different directions from friends who I love as family.

I am grateful for every day here. I smile more at the random little things that happen each day. I laugh and agree to read an Australian poem about rain at the office function in a few weeks to mark monsoon season. I sing aloud in public (albeit quietly). My nails are jagged and dirty, my hair frizzy, my face devoid of makeup, my feet constantly dirty and cracked. But how am I? I’m really living.

(and no Lawrence, not all men are bastards, but there is a whole blog that could be written on my current relationship with various men, best left for a day when I better understand it).