More bloggish musings

It's hard to blog when there are cats sitting on your computer chair.

What is the function of your blog? I’ve mused on this question before but it’s an interesting one. (Or at least I think it is.)

One of the function of mine is to record my life. For me. Not that I’m claiming that it’s a particularly interesting or significant one – but it’s the only one I have and I want to preserve it. I’m struck by the fact that I occasionally look back to see what I was doing this month two years ago, for example, and come across things that I’d more or less forgotten about – not huge life events, obviously, but amusing little snippets or enjoyable visits or whatever. I also like looking back to see what the garden was doing at this time in another year.

For this reason, I wish that I’d had a blog when the children were little. All those jewelled mummy moments that Stomper Girl, for instance, records on hers – lots of mine are probably forgotten by me because they were never documented. On the other hand, I do have more recent bloggy bits from when ours were still at home and I’m glad of that.

Another blog function is to communicate. I love the feeling of scattering words and being aware of them landing in people’s heads in distant lands. Now, I think we all feel that while quietly chuntering to ourselves is satisfying, it’s more so if people leave comments, making the communication two-way. It’s striking (to me) how many people read without commenting. I hardly ever do this. Somehow I feel as if I have to earn my pleasure in reading by at least waving hello. I think “lurking” suggests the slightly underhand sensation one gets from merely reading. And yet of course it’s a free world, this Blogdom. If we don’t want people to have access to our burblings, we shouldn’t publish them.

The only times I don’t comment are when there’s nothing I feel I can say – when I really don’t agree with what people are saying/doing (and this applies to very few people I read); or if there are already so many comments that there’s nothing to add.

My fourth blog birthday passed at the beginning of March and, reading back, I’m struck by how much sadder my life is now than it was then. Then, the children were all at home (including our soon-to-be son-in-law), my father was still alive, my mother was reasonably independent. Now the offspring have flown, my father’s dead and I spend a lot of time supporting my mum who, while amazing for nearly 88, is getting gradually frailer. I do still have Mr Life (a fine chap and I’m grateful for him). But I feel my life has changed from colourful to sepia. It's all right, day to day. But only all right.

I say all this because of the third function of my blog: not really to canvass sympathy, despite the pathetic tones of the previous paragraph, but to force myself to clarify my thoughts more publicly – and therefore possibly more coherently – than I do when just gently musing. I’m not really one to bewail my lot and then expect angels to descend from the sky and sort things out. (Though this would be handy.) My children aren’t responsible for my happiness. I have to find a way of being happy, some point to my life. And it needs to be a bit more than just getting up, breathing a lot, teaching, marking and then going to bed again.