Is Blogging Sadistic?

IS blogging sadistic?  This is a question I had to ask myself yesterday evening when we took the younger two to the park and the dog for a walk whilst our eldest was playing cricket.

We were having a great time, giggling on the swings, exploring the woods and frolicking in a field of knee-high grass and flowers until our four-year-old ran down the hill, laughing as he picked up momentum…and abruptly stopped as he fell face first into a patch of nettles.

As we vigorously rubbed him with dock leaves and kissed away his tears, I’m ashamed to admit that my first second thought was, ‘Well, that’s my blog for tomorrow, then.’

What a terrible mother, to use my beloved son’s misfortune in this way!  What a terrible person to examine the angry white and red welts and wish the light was better for taking photographs with my phone!  What a terrible blogger to wish I had my pad and pen with me to take notes as my pre-schooler hopped around yelping, ‘It stings, Mummy!  It stings!’

By the time I answered ‘I know it does, Sweetheart’ in my most soothing voice and picked him up to cuddle him to me, uttering reassurances that it would stop hurting soon, I’m not proud to say that I was already planning this post.

If this was an isolated incident I could maybe have put it down to the fact that Monday is strictly a ‘no wine’ zone, but I’m afraid it’s not the first time I’ve used the misfortune of others to my own blogging advantage.

When my husband cruelly (if accidentally) swept the remaining legs from beneath an innocent, unassuming three-legged dog, I couldn’t wait to share the poor animal’s trauma…after I’d stopped laughing at its expense.

I’m a monster.  A drama-seeking, blog-writing, wine-drinking monster.

In an attempt to redeem myself, though, I don’t think I blog JUST to be sadistic…I do it to be masochistic, too.

For example, when I spectacularly fell over in front of a large audience of pub patrons on a weekend away with my husband earlier this year, I could have chosen to simply put the whole sorry incident out of my mind.  We weren’t in our home town and no-one, except my husband, would have been any the wiser.

But no.  Instead I let everyone, including myself, relive every toe-curling, blush-inducing, would-rather-pull-out-my-own-fingernails-with-pliers-than-do-that-again moment.

Similarly, you may or may not have heard, but there was the debacle at yoga class a few weeks ago where my vagina chose an inopportune moment to announce its presence with a veritable fanfare of fanny farts in front of a very subdued group of bendy strangers.

When I returned home from said yoga class I blurted out what had happened to my husband, thinking he would need to know about it if we were to catch the next plane to Timbuktu.  When he could speak again he said, ‘So that’s your blog for tomorrow, then?’

At the time I stared at him in disbelief, horrified that he would even SUGGEST such a thing.  A ludicrous idea!  As if!  Not on your nelly!  And then I blogged about it the very next day.

Is there something wrong with me?  Should I REALLY feel flattered that several Twitter followers, Facebook friends and blogging networks shared this intimate moment with others?

Then again, maybe I’m not sadistic or masochistic at all; maybe I’m just finally comfortable enough in my own skin to not get embarrassed as easily as I used to.

Maybe I’ve got different priorities now and know that in the grand scheme of things, life’s too short to worry about the little things.

Or maybe I just want to make people laugh, make their day a little brighter, provide a (hopefully) enjoyable distraction for the few minutes that they read my blog.

And do you know what?  If that’s the case, I’d fail, fall and fanny fart all over again just to raise a smile 😉