I sat in a conference room in the Philosophy building of my university with four esteemed professors who were all there to hear me present an oral dissertation which would be the conclusion of my bachelor’s degree. They could finally check my name off their obligatory thesis advisory committee lists. I was one week shy of nine months pregnant, more than an hour away from home, and covered in that attractive panic-induced splotch pattern that one can only understand if s/he is the proud recipient of this magical genetic trait. To say that I was nervous would be a gross understatement.

After presenting my thesis and nervously answering numerous questions from the professors gathered, my committee took out their pens and inked their names on my fancy thesis paper copies (if you haven’t had the chance to follow rigorous instructions as to exactly how many cotton fibers must be inlaid in the expensive paper that you then spend tens of hours printing, compiling, and desperately attempting not to smudge, you’re missing out). It was over. I did it. I was done with my degree. I sat at the conference table, which could barely contain myself and my baby, feeling very much relieved. Not only was I finished with this defence process that I had been dreading since the day I decided to embark on this thesis mission, but also, my baby was kind enough not to make her appearance during my defense.

Then came a question from one of the professors: “What’s next?” Prior to becoming pregnant, my plan was to continue with school ad infinitum. I wanted to collect degrees and magically land in some kind of university career. I wanted to become a part of someone’s thesis committee. I wanted to make someone half as nervous as these lovely people were making me in the nicest way possible. “What’s next?” I didn’t have a good response. I simply answered “The baby is next.” And either in reality, or in my head (feel free to analyze that statement with a group of Philosophy majors), there was a collective sigh of disappointment. I had taken the time of the busy professors for my endgame of staying in my pajamas at home all day.

Six years later, I understand what it was that really, actually came “next.” It wasn’t that I was just planning on staying home with my kid, changing diapers, and feeding on demand forever. Of course it was going to be every clichéd parenting phrase: “you’ll probably never sleep again,” “it’s the hardest, most rewarding job ever,” “you’ll understand a completely different kind of love,” but “What’s next?” turned out to be something entirely different.

It took me six years and two children to answer this question, “Professor, I plan to return to simplicity. I plan to find my way back to what is essential in life and to what is necessary. I plan to drown out the peripheral drama which once weighed heavily on me. I plan to follow the lead of the children that my husband and I so lovingly created and learn from them the importance of a simple life. I hope to stay true to their biological needs for comfort and well-being, to hold them as close as possible, to nourish them as wholeheartedly as they deserve, and to refrain from falling into as many pitfalls of excess that surrounds modern society as possible. I hope to be part of a life, that if my family was transplanted into another time and place, would still flourish. I will attempt to lead a simple life. Not an easy life, but a simple one.” -Irina