I was shitting myself. I couldn't cope, I didn't know how to help. I didn't know what to do. On top of that, of course I barely saw D and he barely saw his babies over the whole Christmas period; this is still the case. He's pretty much working every waking hour. And there's so much more he has to do, and quite unfairly as well.

And then, remember this post? You know, where I laid all my shit out there? Told it like it is? Sat back and waited to be slammed, and instead you were all fucking lovely?

Wait... I'm sorry...where ALMOST all of you were fucking lovely?

Well it turns out some people can't handle the truth. I can handle the truth. I can deal with my faults. I know I have plenty of them. I know I'm most definitely not always in the right. But I tell it like it is, because that's HOW IT IS.

You know who you are. Everyone else knows who you are. You named yourself.

So when I'm rejoicing over the fact that my Pa In Law is out of hospital, you know what's really fucking inappropriate? Leaving a shitty comment, about your OWN SORRY ASS, on an update about my family living to see another day (THANK GOD) and trying to bring me down with you. And then? Doing a fucking runner. "Unfriending" me. Leaving your shit on me and DOING A RUNNER. You are one of the most childish people I have ever met.

You know what? If you had balls? You would have left that comment, and stayed around, to take the shit that was so deservedly coming your way. Instead? You just proved your worth.

In fact? You proved you're worthLESS.

2009? I am sick of you. I have had enough of you. Matter of fact? This entire decade? You can go suck my balls.

Because you know what? I have balls. I have big hairy CAHOONAS and you? Mr I -Still-Haven't-Named-You-Because-I-Am-Not-A-Loser-Like-You? Can go suck them. And so can you, year 2009.

Because 2010? Is a whole new time. And I've got lots in store. And if anyone wants to fuck with me in that time? Well go ahead and BRING IT.

I'm ready and waiting for you.

At the moment I look and feel less like this:

And much more like this.

For two years I was a lapdancer. And a HOT one at that. And I'm not biased. I made my money dammit.

Right now? Whoopi Goldberg would be a hotter dancer than me. Sometimes it feels like the only thing I have going is my boobs. But even THEY are milk boobs. In about 4 and a half months they're going to be flimsy empty boobs.

Everyone says it's too early to worry about it. It's only been 7 months. Yes. I know. I'm well aware. It doesn't happen overnight. But you know what? I haven't lost a pound in weight. Not One. Single. Pound. There are some days where all I get to eat is whatever I have at teatime in the evening. I'm not starving myself, I can assure you of that. More often than not, I don't get a CHANCE to eat. Not a proper meal, anyway. Today? I've had a wholemeal bread roll with some cheese. No butter. And then I feel like I should eat more. But instead, I end up running around after the kids (*sigh* the kids...) and forget to eat. And then I'm not even hungry.

I miss the Jay who felt reasonably attractive WITHOUT having to make a huge effort. And by huge effort, I mean buying out shares in Max Factor. I miss the Jay who had a confidence in the way she looked, and didn't feel the need to rely on compliments of others to feel good.

Beauty is on the inside. I'm well aware of that, but I don't even feel much of THAT at the moment. But what does it take to go from Crummy Mummy to Yummy Mummy? What do all the hot moms do out there?

And also, whoever stole my Mojo? I'd like it back please.

Yesterday proved my point of how you just can't let your fucking guard down at any time.

D was due home from work on Christmas eve at about 2 pm. At 1:57, he's at the door, and as I open it for him, I instantly (and gut wrenchingly) see that something is wrong. His dad, my father in law, the first real father figure in my life, has been taken in to hospital, with suspected angina or a heart attack. D doesn't even get to come in the house to see the boys; I turn him around and tell him to go to the hospital to be with his dad.

I had my mom here to help me and spend time with the boys. Noah started acting up throughout the afternoon; he knew something was wrong. D made it back about 2 hours later, and was home for 30 seconds when his sister in law called and said she was very worried about how his mum was coping.

D pretty much didn't see his boys yesterday. He missed their bedtime routine, and missed taking Noah round the houses to see their crazy Christmas lights.

FYI:

I'm really not lying when I say crazy.

Seriously. No kidding.

However, I digress.

D didn't get back until 8:30pm last night, and because he'd been working since 5 am, he was so exhausted, he pretty much ate a bit of food and then fell asleep right on the sofa.

I felt so bad for him, because I didn't know what to do; there was nothing I could do expect be there. I'm really crap at "being there" for people. I never really know what to say, and when I do offer up advice/info, it's quite often ignored.

Today, has been lovely. Pa in law is stable, but they might operate on Monday. We're not sure yet.

Noah has been FANTASTIC. He's opened half of his presents, wasn't interested in any more because of one particular gift. He also ignored the santa stocking loaded with toys at the bottom of his bed, favouring instead, the Christmas lights we left on in his room so he could see what he was doing.

So we had to kind of compensate by bringing him to our room to pick out his stocking fillers.

Which he seemed to enjoy.

Isaac has chowed his way through all manner of crap this morning and we don't care; it keeps him happy, and especially as he seems a bit under the weather at the mo (teething? ear infection? puberty?) But he's enjoying the fruits of Noah's stash; they're being really lovely and actually playing together. It's fucking awesome.

D's just handed me my Christmas card; inside is $80 US, ready to put towards Blogher10 next year. That and a new camera lens, some jewellery and a photo mag subscription among other things, and I'm fucking chuffed with my haul.

D is thrilled to bits with his speciality cognac glasses, bottle of Remy Martin XO, fancy chocs and Mr Tickle t-shirt (Noah's favourite character, and very happy as he had just opened his Mr Tickle pyjamas).

Thankfully, we ALL seem to be having a good day so far.

Merry Christmas...

For some reason, I'm terrified. It's times like this when I wonder if I shouldn't have had the Nanny to help me out in the first place. Like somehow, I should have taken care of my own shit. For all the shit that was hitting the fan, for some reason it feels like I was making excuses. Like I have to defend myself. But I don't know to who.

Somehow, I need to learn to take charge of my shit. Right now, I'm just too scared to leave the damn house.