You know the idiom, “Put the cart before the horse”? Yeah, my husband and I are the poster children of that. We’re married and having a baby, but can’t live in the same country.
In June 2016, I sublet my apartment in Toronto and moved to Windsor, Ontario to work as a news reporter for the CBC. I didn’t expect my personal headline to read, “Toronto Girl Finds Love of Her Life in Michigan.” But alas, here we are.
It’s no secret Windsor isn’t the most exciting city in the world. I went on a couple dates with locals. One was wearing a puka shell necklace. The other was a real estate agent/actor. He gloated about his bit parts on Canadian prank shows for about an hour, then I lied and said I got called into work. Bye Felicia!
I decided I’d have to venture across the border to Detroit to find more interesting suitors.
Enter future husband.
Devin and I started chatting on OkCupid. The algorithm said we were a 99 percent match. After bonding over our love of classic rock and passion for making films, we decided to meet in person.
He came to Windsor. We drove to the quaint town of Amherstburg and had a few beers with locals at the legion. We were enthralled by this one old guy who makes a living hand-painting signs. His wasted friend was wearing a kilt for no reason. My kind of place.
Devin and I each wrote down a wish, put them in an empty Jameson bottle and threw it into the Detroit river.
We continued to date over the summer until I got a call from CBC Toronto, asking me to return home and start reporting there. It was an amazing opportunity career-wise, but bittersweet since I would be leaving Devin, my newfound American Romeo.
I had a couple weeks off before starting the new gig, so Devin and I decided to take a spontaneous road trip down south. We listened to blues in Mississippi, tried on cowboy hats in Nashville and danced to Elvis at Graceland. That trip made me realize we had a deep connection. The long car rides were just as fun as the destinations.
After that trip, I moved back into my apartment in Toronto and we decided to give the long-distance thing a try. He’d come here. I’d go there. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I showed him Niagara Falls and introduced him to All Dressed chips (his favourite “Canadian” thing to date).
Family matters.
Though we lived in different countries, we both wanted to start a family. We rolled the life dice and about six months later, I got pregnant again. We felt ready.
In October 2017, we went through the sadness and disappointment of a miscarriage. (I’ll be sharing this experience soon.)
Devin was my rock and supported me through such a difficult time. Our hearts were shattered, but our hope remained intact.
And we continued to roll the dice.
On February 18, 2018, we were thrilled to see a positive pregnancy test.
Things are looking good and our baby is due on October 25, 2018.
But, we still live in different countries. Devin can’t legally work in Canada and I can’t legally work in the U.S. We ain’t rich. We need that double income life.
With a few Google searches, I found out I could sponsor Devin as my conjugal partner. Then we could both live and work in Canada. Great! Let’s do that.
We met with an immigration firm in Toronto and they instantly quashed our dreams.
“Yeah, conjugal is not really a thing. That category is basically for, like, gay people who will get shot in their home country if people find out they’re together, for example. So, if you want to sponsor Devin, you’ll have to marry him.”
I do?
MARRIAGE?! Gulp.
Not exactly something I was looking to dive into in the midst of my own parents going through a messy and tumultuous divorce.
I’ve been in long-term relationships since high school, but I’ve never lived with a dude. I’ve kept it just me and the cats. So, this prospect was daunting.
“Oh yeah, and it takes over a year to complete the spousal sponsorship process.”
A YEAR?! Double gulp.
Umm, our baby would be born long before then. We had to get this perpetual bureaucratic ball rolling.
I waded through my fear and “what ifs.” I mean, I’m having this guy’s baby. I love this person. Okay, marriage.
There was only one thing that came to both of our minds: Elvis wedding!
Viva Las Vegas!
Within a couple short weeks, we wrangled our close friends, booked some flights and nailed down an impersonator.
On April 1, 2018 (yes, April Fool’s Day), Devin and I tied the knot at A Little White Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas, Nevada. Our friends joined us for the weekend and came to the ceremony.
We chose the pink cadillac package. We tearfully exchanged rings and vows while Elvis serenaded us with “Teddy Bear” (strange song choice for a wedding, but whatever) and we all awkwardly danced.
We’ve only now completed our immigration package. Personal essays, over 50 photos, screengrabs of our endless text messages, letters from family and friends, an FBI background check and about a billion government forms were only part of the criteria.
It will now take an estimated 12 months for Devin to receive permanent residency. Oh, and if we made even one error, we have to start again. (Knock on all the wood).
Not sure how this is all going to play out. Because of the lengthy approval process, we’re going to have to do some hopping around. I don’t know where we’ll land.
All I know, as long as we’re together, it will feel like home.
