This morning my little sister gave birth to her first. She did brilliantly well, having laboured through a failed epidural, and pretty much in labour for I think, 24 hours. She asked me to be there, to help coach her a little bit, get through the contractions and support her as best as possible.

And I so wanted to be there for her. But for some reason, the whole event started to make me realise how fucking spineless I am. I don't know why, but for some reason, her partner seems to take great pleasure in making me a scapegoat; it's a big joke, and for all my ailments and physical problems, I become a great source of humour and entertainment for them. And I say them because once my mother joins in, it's like a free-for-all.

So why am I bothered? I can laugh at myself, right? Hell isn't that what this blog has become? A place where I list all the impressively stupid things I've done so we can all have a laugh at my expense? Well last night it hurt. A lot. And I felt annoyingly stupid for it too. Why can't I just get a fucking spine already? Why can't I just deal with this shit?

Maybe he didn't understand or appreciate that I had my own shit to deal with too. I had left the boys with the Nanny at 10am yesterday morning, and hadn't seen them since. Of course, Noah chose to eat an entire pot of Baked Beans for the Nanny. He and Isaac were great all day for the Nanny. And once again I felt like a failed mother. I felt two of my old friends, guilt and depression.

Maybe he didn't understand that everyone else had had sleep at some point; I couldn't because there was nowhere for me to sit and rest without being in agony with my goddamn hips and pelvis (falling down the stairs a few days earlier does nothing to help this problem by the way). He probably also didn't realise that I hadn't boobed in something like 15 hours and was in no mood to take shit from anyone, apart from the one person who was in a stupid amount of pain (her epidural failed - it fell out. Wtf???)

I understand he had other concerns, but why am I such a fucking laughing stock? I was there to SUPPORT them, not be his comic relief. But like the story of my life, I didn't say anything to him or my mother. How could I? I wasn't gonna shit on his day and she can barely take much these days herself. So who do I vent at in the situation? Well I don't. Suck it up, take it outside, cry a bit, then go back in and hit head on. Story of my fucking life.

There are lots of issues bothering me right now, and none so much as the gaping issue of me staring into that old Slippery Slope. I've felt it creeping up on me for ages, months now, but have that distinct feeling no one would understand or perhaps, believe me when I say I think there's something wrong. This isn't just tiredness, but something is wrong. I've become so good at shoving it aside that it doesn't get dealt with anymore, and so it just sits in the corner quietly festering away

And I can't deal with it. Everytime I suggest that I might be sinking, someone responds in such a way that makes me think or feel like I'm just being weak. We're allowed to be weak aren't we? Everyone has moments of weakness, right? Is it so wrong that sometimes I just want to give in to my weakness, let it wash over me, take me back to that place of nothingness where I don't physically or mentally deal with anything?

Sometimes I long for that place. I didn't care about anything. Anything. I would wake up, not even move, because I couldn't, I wouldn't, barely inhaling into the black shroud over my head. It was an oddly comfortable shroud because it felt like it shielded me. It hid me. It protected me from everything and protected everything from me and I didn't care. I haven't worn that shroud for a long time, and sometimes I think I miss it, but I'm not sure. It was easier letting someone else sort everything out; I didn't have to deal with anything. It didn't feel like I had to deal with anything.

Is that wrong? Is that selfish? That wanting to go to sleep, to hide myself away and not have to be visible to anyone? I think my problem is I just don't know how to look after my shit. And so it's easier to hide.

Which is sad, because in all honesty? Sleeping tablets shouldn't look this appealing from my point of view. But that's the easiest way, isn't it? Drift off into a long black sleep, right? Then I can wake up later, maybe, and someone else has sorted out all the shit. Or maybe I don't wake up, and don't have to think about this shit.

Maybe it's Christmas. Maybe I have spent so many years running around trying to make sure everyone's playing Happy Families, and busted my own ass so many times in the process that I can't physically do anymore. I know I can't do anymore. I feel like I'm constantly putting myself out there for others to keep them happy, but no one helps me take care of my shit. And then when I DO try to take care of my shit, I feel guilty and selfish for abandoning everyone else.

Why do I do this to myself? Who did this to me? Why the fuck does it happen? Did my parents do this? Is it because of them why I'm this way? Is it just me? Am I just fucked up, broken, damaged goods? Have I served my time and now that's it for me, finite? I need that light under the shroud. I need cushions at the bottom of the slope. I don't see them yet. I don't know who could pt those things there for me. Hell I'd just like to know how to put them there myself.

I love you. I love you so very much. And because I love you so much? I'm also sorry. I'm sorry that I couldn't always do my absolute best for you. I'm sorry for the days when I broke, and even with your little concerned face, and patting and rubbing my back to try and make me feel better when you didn't even understand, it was sometimes you who somehow put me back together a bit.

I'm sorry if I ever lay too much on you. I have so much on my plate and I don't know how to let off steam. I try not to cry in front of you, but even though you're not yet 2 years old, you know, somehow, when I'm desperately sad.

You're such an amazing little boy; you blow me away with just being you, every single day. I bust my ass for you, trying to make sure you have the best upbringing and home life I could possibly give you. I try to make sure you have a bit of fun. I try to make sure you eat right. I try to make sure you don't get ill, and when you do get ill, I hope to make it go away and ensure you're strong enough to get through it as fast as possible.

You love your brother Isaac so much, and I love so much when you give him toys to play with, pick up his biscuit if he drops it, show me the sign for tears when he's crying, and look at me with great concern when he's clearly distressed. I never taught you any of that, no one did. You did that yourself. You amaze me. Every day.

I feel like I've failed you sometimes, and you're only two. I still feel like your carer, not your mother. I feel the same with Isaac too. Yet you unconditionally continue to give me hugs and kisses, and they are so, SO sweet. Somehow, yours are better than any I've ever known. And yet still I feel bad for us.

I want you to know that I did try my hardest. All the time. I try to fight for you whenever I can, for whatever reason. I've made so many mistakes, it's untrue. No one tells the mom what to do, the mom has to be the one to give out all the instructions to everyone else. So therefore, I learn by making all the mistakes. I don't want to screw you over. I don't want to make you neurotic like me, fretting ridiculously over every little thing that shouldn't plague your mind.

I hate that I might make you grow up before your time. I hate that thought so much. I don't want to turn you into something horrible; I don't want to take away your childhood. You deserve your childhood so much; I didn't have much of mine. I hope to make it up for you.

You will always be great Noah, you will never be anything less. I just always hope that I can be a part of it, to maybe hope I contributed to it, and that you'll be anywhere near as proud of me as I am of you.

I love you baby boy.

Mom x

In terms of twitter, you'll get more feedback and conversation going pending on the number of followers you have; more followers subjects you to the public a little more, and of course, the more you interact with them, the more interesting an experience it becomes.

Supposedly. For some.

In terms of blogging, I understand that the ideal is to blog regularly, whatever "regularly" might be (several times a day? Several times a week? Once every month at exactly the same time?). It also helps to make yourself accessible; having an easy to read blog and being able to comment freely should you choose to do so.

Lately I've raised the question of profiling (in a fashion) through a blog. What does it take to raise blogging stats? What does it take to get hundreds of comments? How do you appeal to the public? How do you get the public to respond and/or relate to you?

When I asked the question on twitter, the feedback was interesting, and I could see what they were saying just by looking at my own statistics on my blog. Some people lurk and choose not to comment. Some people comment when they only want to bitch about something. Some comment all the time because they don't have any where else to say what they want to say. And then some comment often because they just genuinely have something to feedback on, or whatever. There are obviously more, but these seem to be the general categories.

I'm thrilled that the visitor figures for my blog have risen lately, however I've noticed the drastic increase in spam and anonymous comments as well; you may have noticed lately that your comments take a while to appear. After having received several racist and extremely inappropriate spam comments, I had to lock things up a wee bit. Disappointing, yes, but expected at some point.

Interestingly, many have said that blogger was not particularly friendly to commenters; there are so many formats out there; for me, Blogger just seemed to be the best place to start, way back when. But for a while I've been toying with the idea of Wordpress, or some other format. Not just because I would like more people to comment on my blog (which would be nice, you know, let me know ya'll are out there), but also because I'd like this to be as approachable as possible to all readers. I feel a bit...like...this is for everyone, you know?

At the end of the day? Would like to hear your feedback.

Just sayin'.

As a result of twitter, in this last week I have spoken to Andi Peters, Philip Schofield, Jonathan Ross, Alyssa Milano, Robert Llewellyn, Rob Brydon, Gia Milinovich and Krisnan Guru-Murthy. And in doing so, I've raised £800. I have £200 to go (two more celebrities to make £1000, as sponsored by @makesmilk).

And of course, who can forget that Twitter is responsible for my epic stalking of Stephen Fry. Quite possibly one of the best 10 hour stints of my life.

Also thanks to twitter, I'm now into my 32nd hour without having gone to bed for proper sleep. I've accumulated about 3 hours sleep in this time frame, and I feel like shit great! Added to that the Universal Case of F.O.F going round myself, Noah and Isaac, makes for a very happy household indeed. Not. But anyway.

Twitter is also responsible for some very awesome friendships with people I probably would never have met otherwise. If I haven't listed you, it's because I'm too lazy to post more links into text. Sorry. But you know who you are, and there are so many of you. And I'm in love with each and every one of you.

However there were plenty more people on twitter who helped me find my beans. And rejoiced with me when I found my beans.

There are also things which might and/or will happen, because of Twitter. Lovely things. Great things. Pretty cool things.

Like Blogher10 (OOOOOMFG) next August. I watched everyone tweet their way through it this year and it looked like one of the most awesome gatherings EVAH. Right down to the after parties, all through conferences, and, uh, Sparklecorn. There are people I CANNOT WAIT to meet at Blogher 10, and I'm wondering if there are ways to meet up with people who can't get there.

Also cool, is recent sort-of almost maybe-it-will-happen conversations with Karl Erikson, and his hilarious talk show, Secondhand Radio (I have no idea why it's called Secondhand Radio. I must ask him sometime).

I know some of you hate it. Some of you are Facebook whores. Some of you even go to the dark side and worship MySpace. But that's ok.

Twitter has shown me some good times. I heart you, twitter.