In which many parenthetical clauses appear

What a crap day.

Another one of those non-specific crap days. Nothing terribly untoward happened. My dog didn't die. My car didn't break down. I just felt ill and tired, read the last of my books. The babes were particularly irritable today. I don't know what that was - like everyone, I guess, they have their peaceful days and their wound up days.

I know it doesn't help that I'm sick and dragging, that it's 97 bloody degrees outside, that I'm feeling particularly restless for some reason.

The bubs are normally quite good, actually. I guess today was simply a series of unfortunate events. Bulk kept turning the kitchen computer off, Boy and the Human Crash Test Dummy managed to find my BluKote (a veterinary antiseptic on the order of gentian violet - it is a bright, deep blue that stains everything it touches). Luckily, it was in the concrete floored mud room.

Not so lucky was Bitty Girl wandering about with a pair of scissors when I ducked out to the barnyard for a moment. I was gone, maybe, 20 minutes. When Evil Genius Husband finally noticed Bitty's dangerous toy he failed to notice that she'd also managed to remove a huge chunk of her hair - right in front.

So I returned (can I not leave the bloody house for a second?) to a group of small people and one big people who were bewildered at my wrath and got to sadly cut Bitty's gorgeous dark blond curls off as close as I dared in a (vain) attempt to match everything up.

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So, sans segue, let me ask you a question.

I often see fellow bloggers having Blog Crises of one sort or another - idiot commentors, family members discovering the blog, snarky bitches running off in secret and blogging nasty things, and so on - but I've never had one.

Now I do.

I've been feeling lately as if I can't be honest on my own blog. As a person who says what she means and means what she says, this is BIG for me.

But I'm in the first trimester and have what comes along with that state: morning sicknes, exhaustion, pre-baby blues, guilt, anxiety, paranoia, and so on. So mostly what I have to say is of a venting nature despite this being a much-wanted pregnancy.

But I feel hindered in doing so. I feel like my good blog friends (and I hope you know who you are) don't deserve to listen to what is essentially crap every post. I also feel like there are those readers who are judging me. Every time I want to post I hear this slightly snotty, masked-as-concern voice of some past annonymous commentors singing in an I-told-you-so way: "Well, you wanted this baby, you chose to have this baby, and now you're bitching ..."

(If you've read Harry Potter, try to imagine the toad-like Delores Umbridge here)

Well, guess what? Everybody needs a forum to vent. Even wonderous and joyous events come with their share of rant provoking downsides and I hate, hate, hate it that I feel like I can't write those thoughts down.

So what would you do? (See? There was eventually a question!) Get (yet another) blog elsewhere that is totally private? Get a notebook IRL? Get a life and get over it?

PS: yes, I know I'm hormonal and yes, I know that tomorrow will be a much better day. I'm going to the sale as a matter of fact. Perusing the dizzying array of FemMullets is bound to be cheering.