The Book of Ruth Chapter 10: Time's Arrow

Sometimes I think Ruth may be dead.

I’ve been thinking a lot about sliding doors. Alternate realities. As if every dream, aspiration, desire, is an echo from a different thread. Real somewhere. Just not here. Or now. In this timeline. The one I’m writing to you from.

I’ve been ruminating. Does every choice mean the death of a different possibility? A different thread? A different life? A road diverged in a yellow wood and both lead to different realities that live on separate tracks. One decision leads to one place. The other leads somewhere else. Maybe we live infinite parallel lives. Maybe all of them are real. Maybe none of them are. Maybe this is the matrix. There’s so much we don’t know.

Can you tell I don’t know atom from Adam? I cribbed my way out of grade ten chemistry so all of this may be a touch over my head. I tried to read A Brief History of Time once and it hurt my head so much I gave up after the first page and slowly inched it off the side of the bed with my foot. But still, these thoughts have been niggling at me.

What would those other lives look like? The life where I stayed in Toronto after ad school, took the shiny agency gig, got furloughed from work, and never had Brisket or Ruth. One where I’m still an actor. A singer. One where I stayed in Toronto after I got kicked out of theatre school instead of moving home. One where I actually left and went to live on that kibbutz in Israel with that soldier. One where I didn’t miscarry and had a completely different child. Those unlived lives. Those other choices. Those twists of fate.

I wonder what yours are? Tell me the next time I see you.

And then there’s the part of me that doesn’t trust a good thing. Or reality. Especially when both align. I’m wary.

I roll over and sigh, heavily, twice, at Thomas one night as we’re watching god-knows-what because I’m too distracted to pay any attention. He takes the bait. I tell him that sometimes I feel like Ruth may be dead. Like what if she didn’t survive the placental abruption and my brain didn’t accept it. Maybe the trauma caused me to break from reality and I mentally split off into a fantasy realm. Maybe this life is a lie I live inside my mind while I’m actually rotting in a padded cell somewhere. He says something about how if this wasn’t reality would there so much fucking dog hair everywhere? Or maybe there are two realities. One where she made it. One where she didn’t. ‘Am I crazy?’, I ask… ‘No…I mean there are theories about multiple realities. Time being a continuum.’ He said some other heady stuff, I’m dumbing it down because I didn’t really understand what he was going on about but he gave me the answer I was looking for: not crazy! Phewf. Feel free to draw your own conclusions though.

In some ways, it all would make sense. This not being real. She is a bit too perfect for us. Not perfect, but perfect for this family. This mother. Somehow she is too manageable, compared to what I was expecting of parenthood. Too important. Too stunning. Too overwhelming. Sometimes I look around and am full of so much…much, I don’t trust it. Like it’s easier to believe I’m mad than simply lucky and happy. I’ve never trusted ‘happy’ much. So fleeting. Inconsistent. Ephemeral.

I’m a bit afraid to love her too much. To protect myself from what this abundance of love could do to me should anything ever happen (*I knock on wood, spit three times, and pet a lucky rabbit’s foot*) I have decided I need to account for every bad thing that could ever happen. I need to predict everything that could go wrong, every danger, and be five steps ahead to check for anything that could potentially harm her. Sound sustainable? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

She’s really coming into her own. But sometimes I’m still startled by her. We were driving home from the cottage a few weeks ago. I turned to Thomas and whispered “isn’t it so weird we have a baby? Like, sometimes I’m daydreaming and then I turn and she’s there and I’m like, ah! How did you get here?!”. He nodded. It’s weird. We’ve been together for seventeen years. One year short of half my life. And now we’ve multiplied. I never thought I would have a kid. It seemed gross and unnecessary. Let alone terrifying. But we did. She is. We are. She’s one.

I hate my birthday. But I’m excited for hers. Her first birthday. Babe Ruth’s rookie year. That’s the concept for the birthday. But as it draws nearer, I keep thinking about how maybe none of this is real. I’ll wake up from my psychosis, someone will pinch me and I’ll come to.

I thought Thomas would roll his eyes at me when I told him about my maybe Ruth didn’t make it theory. But he didn’t. He said, hey this could be one of many possible realities. So if this is my imagination playing tricks on me. What a kind brain. What a sweet dream. A gentle false narrative.

Motherhood is a splitting of the self. I am now not completely my own. My focus is not just on me and my life. It is now also about hers. But only for so long. She will spread her wings and split, herself. Away from me. And Thomas. As she becomes more and more reliant on herself, her inner world, her own multiple realities and genetically passed-down neuroses.

Eventually, I will have to take a giant step back and let her go. But not yet. Year one is almost done. The tether between us is tight. As she grows it will get longer and longer, the slack will tighten until it must naturally break. Then we’ll be two adults. Living parallel lives. Connected but not bound to one another. That day is not close. Or maybe it’s already happened if you don’t believe time is linear. I don’t know. But I do know that every day I get to wake up and take care of Ruth is a good day. Some are hard days, but they’re still good at their core. I’m glad this year, in this timeline exists. I could never have imagined how achingly difficult and beautiful 365 days could possibly be.