Not really. I just stopped being so damned interesting to write about.
I now live in Seattle with my family. I'm an immigrant, a legal alien, a mother, and still married to Viking although he's constantly refused to do anything about that weird toe.
I think I might love him regardless. Funky toe is not a deal breaker, I've found. Such insight in my more mature days. Just blows you away, doesn't it?
My kid has Down syndrome so I'm also a fervent advocate for acceptance, meaningful inclusion and equality. I'm loud. Louder than before. And sometimes yell-y, but wine helps. There is much too much prejudice, disregard, ignorance, ableism, and hate sometimes. It all makes you want to repeatedly drop the f-bomb in various settings. Which I do often. Only I call it "saying FUCK." My kid will soon call it that too, most likely. I'm not proud, but I'm not concerned either. When people don't think you're quite human enough, intentionally or not, other things get pushed to the sidelines. Rightfully so.
In my current life I use the words 'human rights' more than I ever thought I would and cringe when I think back of how unchecked my white privilege largely went while I was living in Africa.
But, you know, wine helps. (Me. Not the situation. The situation needs work.)
I now seem to know exactly what I will do with my life and for the most part proceed quite accordingly. This blog about Down syndrome (click on the link to see how focused my ranting has become) is just a fraction of my do-ing-ness of the life and its living. It involves other platforms and other kinds of being loud too. It suits me: life and living it loudly. I wish I didn't have to do it, the loud part, not the living part, that part's pretty okay, and that the injustices and ableist rhetoric weren't there, but they are. I could not have thought of a better use for my personality if I had tried.
Who knew it wouldn't involve shoes or coffee? Not me. Both are purely recreational.
I still drink too much wine too. If that wasn't clear. Just never when I'm alone with the kid known as Babe even if she's asleep in case I need to rush her to the hospital. Has happened. I'm responsible and can manage an icy road with a baby hooked onto an oxygen tank in the back seat in the middle of the night without panicking.
Her head remains firmly attached and she seems happy enough. All around parenting triumph.
I drive better in my minivan. It's bright red and the Pacific Northwest allows for wide turns most times. I was "wide" backing around the corner in my driving test which I otherwise aced, so I have confidence that I never had before. I have only hit a pole, just a little bit, once.
And I've skipped from continent to continent with a toddler sleeping on my shoulder while carrying two pieces of hand luggage. The width of an airplane seat is no longer enough to occupy my thoughts.
A child of a global world, originally from the land of Santa and cell phones, married to a bona fide viking, and attempting to raise a loud little life who has Down syndrome, all the while getting used to the US Pacific Northwest after many years in Latin America and Africa. Against all odds the kid's first words turned out to be 'mom' and 'book' instead of 'fuck' and 'no'. That may well turn out to have been my finest parenting moment ever.