There’s an oddness in blogging that comes from the ability of the author to pick and choose among blog topics. Should I write about the one thing my husband said last night? No, no. That wouldn’t be good for my marriage. Should I type up the numerous fart/poop/burp anecdotes my child finds hilarious? No, everyone would realize how gross we truly are. How about a few compositions about how selfish I am day in and day out? Nah, I’m not in a mood for public confession.

The struggle with blogging is what do I tell? And am I even telling the tale accurately? Is anyone out there getting a realistic picture of me and my family? Or am I spinning stories that intentionally make me look like someone I’m not?

I don’t try to think too much about all those questions. When I do, I quit blogging because it feels so overwhelming. One thing I would like everyone to know is that I’m a mess of a person, just like everyone else. Though I try to keep my postings positive for the most part (because, really, who wants to read lots of negative moping?), I feel like my blog doesn’t represent me to the fullest capacity. But don’t hold your breath for full representation. If I ever choose to release my life’s stories, it’ll be in a memoir one day before I die.