Sometimes you just no longer feel something, and obviously, for me, this blog was that something.
I stopped writing here, more or less, at the point in time where talking about leaving California stopped being hypothetical and started being serious. Right, we'd been here before, but this time was serious. Only I couldn't really talk about it, because it would have been inappropriate for Dug's work. That's the peril of not embracing anonymity.
When you can't really write about the only thing you've got going on, or at least, the only thing you've really got to say, you end up not writing at all. And when the habit's gone, you feel weird trying to pick it back up, especially if it means starting with a "Well, here's where I've been all this time" kind of post*.
But space is good, and gives perspective. I don't really want to just write about being a mother, I don't really want to write about anything specific. I am no longer childbearing, and man, if there's a less appropriate and more loaded term to have thoughtlessly applied to myself than "hipster", I do not want to know about it. But I do, in general, still want to write, and I do, in general, still like the idea of pushing my mindgrape squeezings out there into the big wild world.
And so. I am no longer on the West Coast, and my family and I have a different-ish life now. We pulled the trigger, we moved to Minneapolis, and we're tearing it up, Mary Tyler Moore style.
If you want to follow along, come see me over here at The Middle Coaster.
*But you probably want to know what happened to the chickens, right? Well, after providing us with limitless entertainment and more eggs than we could handle, we sent them off to live on a farm. Not a euphemism farm, a real honest-to-goodness farm in Gilroy, CA, where they were lovingly integrated into an existing flock by experienced home poulterers. Will we do it again? Hell yeah, in theory. In practice, well, that story will tell itself as we go.