Transplanted

I’m a transplant.

I thought our family was settled, at least for awhile. We’d bought a house in the country, added a baby to our family of two, settled into careers we loved.

Then over a normal lunch on a normal day, a friend casually suggested we turn our life upside down.

I laughed. Then I told my husband, my dad and my boss, as a joke. Then my husband started looking at houses, my dad started talking about finding your purpose in life, and my boss said I could take my job with me.

That’s where it got serious. Two weeks later my husband had an interview. Five weeks later we both had jobs. A week after that we had a rental home, and three weeks after that my baby and I were on a flight across the country to meet up with my hubby and start a new life.

So now we live here. Well, not here, but you get the idea.

I’m not just any transplant, though. I grew up on a ranch in the middle of Texas nowhere. Most of my childhood was spent on eight miles of dirt road. The first time I lived in the city limits was when I went across the state for college. I know about preg checking cows, windstorms and burning trash to keep the critters away, but I do not know about traffic circles, recycling pickup on Tuesdays or community green spaces.

Because every day I laugh at myself over some new revelation about city living, my work in agriculture and politics, my life with a 10 month old, my marriage to Mr. Wonderful, and the absurdity of how life has changed in just one year, here’s my blog…