Updated: Aug 1, 2019
I used to blog. We were just married and I immediately felt responsible for feeding him, like a newborn. Or a plant. I hadn't taken on either yet, so he got all the love, effort and neurosis that comes with inexperience, in any category of life. This category was dinner.
I didn't know how to cook, even on a rudimentary level. I loved to eat, and that was enough. But when you find someone you love, you push beyond your boundaries of comfort, and prepare discolored, health code-violating food to nourish their body and soul. So I cooked.
And I wrote.
I wrote about my culinary attempts, but mostly I wrote about the early months of our marriage. Our story isn't unlike so many others; great love, great jobs, great families, high expectations for a future we felt would just fall upon us. Not so much. But eventually, the universe brings you just what you need.
It came in the form of two, cute, tiny, (still constantly) hungry humans. I still cook.
But I stopped writing.
Today, I'm a middle-aged lady with not only more brown spots on my legs, but a better idea of what inspired that first blog I attempted to write. It's much like the 24 journals I have from k-5th grade, buried in a box in my basement. I write to process things in life I don't understand, which are many.
I won't write about my tiny, hungry humans. They can write someday, if they choose. I'll write about me. And sometimes Trump.
Like I said, I'm processing.