She sits wrapped in a blanket with her feet propped up on another chair as she cradles her laptop and reads my blog.
“I stalk your blog” She tells me.
In my mind she is snacking on popcorn as highlights of my life scroll across her view cinematically. In reality, it is far less dramatic.
I write because I don’t know how not to and I publish my thoughts because, well, what good is good writing if you keep it to yourself? But there may come a point when my children read something I didn’t intend them to find, what then?
My daughter is 18. She’s passed the age of my feeling I would have to pay for her therapy if she reads something that sends her into shock. But I’m not passed the age of writing about what—or who—is on my mind. Will reading about the dissolution of my marriage tell her anything she doesn't know? Will reading my unadulterated, edited thoughts about my divorce be a surprise?
Now that she is ready for me to date, is she ready to read about my dating?
I could journal my thoughts and encrypt them on withered pages of a nonexistent diary but I’ve never been any good at that.
So I will continue to blog what I know—me—and my experiences growing, learning and loving being who I am; but while I do it I will remind myself that my daughter is reading this and this will remind her that I love her unconditionally and I’m not paying for any therapy.