Instead of being a treasured record of one's life, blog-land becomes a competitive arena to see whose children are the cutest, funniest, wittiest, whose kitchen the most stylish and most importantly, whose writing style the most quirky. As I'm side-tracked off to other's blogs, I am constantly in awe of the beauty in their lives.
Rarely a tale of blocked greywater sumps, of pulling dead breech calves from mama cows, hot water systems that erupt in the night draining not one, but two rainwater tanks; no stories of bulls up-ended in water-troughs, irrigation pumps who've lost the will to pump, cows with prolapsed uteruses, baskets overbrimming with dirty clothes, as well as others overflowing with ironing, burst poly-fittings which leak thousands of gallons of water, not to mention the lack of tales of lawnmowers broken down with couch grass now almost reaching to the seat in mockery of the mighty Husqvarna. Not so many stories of unkempt houses, of food crumbs under the table, chickens in the laundry, unmade beds and dirty windows. I see none of this on other's blogs, yet my own life is full of such stories. And I have to wonder does anybody really want to know!
But having recently received in the mail a copy of my blogging from 2009 in hard-cover book form, I have so enjoyed re-living last year and especially seeing the photos of my children growing, playing and just being, that I'm determined to get back on track with plenty more 'life' stories to share.
For, at the end of my days when I look back through these pages, it will not be some stranger's marble benchtops, someone else's frittata recipe or crafting ideas that will be of interest to me, it will be these four little critters and our messy home and rocky hills that will be the story of my life.