Writing: Cheaper Than Therapy

This is my 100th post.  Hard to believe that you’ve been coming here on the semi-reg for 100 posts of nonsense, cats, newborns, toddlers, food throwing, TMI, and whatever else my filter-less fingertips bang out on this keyboard.  But here we are, 100 posts later.

I contemplated going Jesse Pinkman with this…

100 posts, bitch.

100 posts, bitch.

Then I thought that maybe I’d tell you what my 100 favorite books are, or give you 100 fun facts about cats, or the 100 songs my toddler likes (answer: all Raffi, all the time).  Or maybe one of those “100 Things About Me!” quizzes like we had on MySpace…remember that?  But you probably aren’t interested in what my favorite meal is (all things barbecued) or what my favorite holiday is (all the ones with food) or what my favorite flower is (any that I can grow) or what my favorite wine is (lololololol…is that a real question?)

I decided that maybe telling you why I write this blog of nonsense might be more interesting.  And if it’s not, just pretend, because my ego needs validation.

I have been a lover of books and writing since I was just a kiddo.  When I was five, I started “The Cat Newspaper.”  I would write and illustrate one or two pages of college ruled notebook paper with various stories about the cats in my house.  As I grew older, I thought I’d become a journalist, but obviously life took me in a much different (and, in my opinion, far more awesome) path.

BREAKING: Mr. Cat eats shoelace.

BREAKING: Mr. Cat eats shoelace.

I still enjoy writing for fun; much of what I write is kept private, and the things I’m comfortable sharing end up here, for your reading pleasure.  Over the years, I have found that writing is an outlet I need.  It’s a space for putting my thoughts and feelings out in the open.  I can clearly put together an idea or message before sharing it.  And I can address some of the things that have happened in my life, safely and with a select group of people.

We all have baggage; some of us just carry little make-up cases of scary thoughts, and others have enormous trunks full of bad experiences.  Regardless of which end of the spectrum you happen to fall on, the suitcase is there, waiting to be checked before boarding.  Getting those things out of my mind, particularly when they are the cause of great anxiety, is important.  And so, I write.  It’s cheaper than therapy.

Writing is a phenomenal way to journal the daily things that happen in life.  Something we’ve found since becoming parents: the material is literally endless.  I can write an entire post on why Miles thinks the cat has seven elbows (dare me, I’ll do it…) I want to remember these moments, the very, very silly ones, or challenging ones, or spaghetti on the ceiling ones, forever.  Sure, a baby book can record the milestones, but it didn’t have a section for “Today, My Poop Looked Like: _________________” And so, I share that here.

I also do this to entertain; I’m a natural ham, yearning for attention, and this is where I find the space to hopefully make others laugh, or cry, or wonder how much wine I’ve really had to drink tonight (none is the answer!)  In my vanity, I believe that people want to read the things I have to say.

Accurate depiction.

Accurate depiction.

Thank you for hanging out through 100 posts, some great, some terrible, but all honest, and with much more nonsense to come…trust me.


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