I’ve wanted to update my About Me page for AGES.  Or four years.  Because somehow, I’m now 36.  Even stranger, my fiance has been my husband for nearly four years.  And the tiny human we made is now very tall and seventeen, nearly three years old.  They are awesome people and I’m glad we get to do life together.

However.  That’s not really About Me, is it?  But it’s been what I’ve been all about for awhile.  I no longer think in sentences, but Isla-isms and cartoon theme songs.  It’s a good day if Isla has a good day.  It’s a good night if I sleep.

We’ve moved to Skye from Edinburgh, into a house that’s needed more work than we originally thought.

I love our quirky house, but I’d love it more if we could plant it somewhere with neighbors.  And a bookstore.  And a Starbucks.  And my friends.

I’ve become accustomed to missing people.  Most of my friends are everywhere I am not.  Because I’ve moved a lot.  Before I met Neil, moving and starting over just seemed to be something I did.  I was good at it.  Until realised I didn’t want to do it anymore.

My first move was from Dallas to New York, I was a baby, but it counted.  I lived on both ends of Long Island, flitting between Mom’s house and Dad’s house and both sets of grandparents.

My Dad moved to Scotland when I was 12ish, and I started going back and forthish.  I was just a girl, landed at an airport asking the people of the country beyond its doors to love her.  I loved both.  I love both.  I’m from both.  I’m from neither.

I never kind of embraced my third-cultureishness, but there it is.

You tend to think about this stuff when you turn 36.  And you have conversations with your too-nearly-three year-old that go like this:

Isla:  Daddy’s from Embra.  So, where are you from, Mummy?

Me:  How long have you got?  Let’s just say Canada.

As I write this, I’m at my kitchen table in my kitchen on Skye, drinking coffee and eating cheese on toast.  The snow from two days ago has melted and I’m listening to country music.  Figure that out.

Neil is working from home as he does up here and Isla’s at school because she’s too smart, already.  We have New York magnets on the fridge.  Next to our penguin-in-a-kilt magnet.  I’m surrounded by books and those envelopes with bubble-wrap lining. I use them to send stuff to my friends, where ever they are.

I sometimes wonder if my confusing cultural clutter, even with it’s frequent-flyer positives, is well, confusing for Isla.  But then we have conversations like this:

‘Where are you from, Isla-Monkey?’

She avoids the question entirely.  I told you she was smart.

‘This is my home,’ she says.

‘Yeah.  Mine, too.’

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This is my home.

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