When my phone rang this morning, my stomach clenched in anticipation. I had a final meeting with a family last night, the last step in our extensive interview process. They were the very clear frontrunner, and I knew this call would  change everything. I took a deep breath to steady myself before answering and awaiting the verdict.

I start my new position July 7.

This new family is amazing. Not only do we complete each other’s sentences when it comes to issues of childcare/parenting philosophy, but I genuinely enjoy them as individuals.

I’m head-over-heels for the children. There are three of them, ages 4-7, and I’m thrilled to be spending the rest of my summer with older children who can really enjoy outings to the zoo, the water park, museums, etc. There is also a new baby, due in seven weeks, so I’m lucky enough that I’ll get to be there from day one for this baby. Already my new boss is waxing poetic about how wonderful it will be to have me bond with the baby from the beginning, meeting her for the first time in the hospital.

Of course, It doesn’t hurt that I’ll be making more money AND working a normal schedule where I’m home by seven every night.

I’m over the moon really. So thrilled to be starting this new adventure that I find myself chomping at the bit and willing time to fly. But this emotional high brings back memories of a time not that long ago, when I was over the moon because I’d just accepted a position with a family in Atlanta who was expecting their first baby. I remember the joy I felt when Baby H. was born, and I held him for the first time, and the pride I felt as he reached each milestone.

I’ve grown weary of the long hours and the increasing demands of this position. I’m very ready to leave now, and so excited to have found this new family. But I am reminded that this new beginning is the end of something, as well.

One week. That’s all I have left in this stage of my life. I’ll try not to wish it away.

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