Cry Baby, Redux

Sometimes, you write something, and believe it to be, like, one-hundred and ten percent true - like, say, I cry so much because I am hormonal, and happy - and then, just hours later, you find yourself standing in the kitchenwares aisle at Zellers sobbing and whimpering, to no-one in particular, I am crying because I CANNOT HANDLE THIS SHIT, I CANNOT HANDLE THIS SHIT, I CANNOT DO THIS, as your toddler disappears around another corner with a fistful of lifted lollipops in her tiny hands, cackling with the maniacal glee that only a shoplifting toddler can summon.

And you seriously consider going home and deleting every reference to happiness from your blog and very possibly removing every single happiness signifier in your household - beginning with that stupid grin on that stupid stuffed Dora doll that Wonderbaby received for Christmas, which, you think, could be quite effectively dealt with by means of black Sharpie - because how can one be happy when one simply cannot cope with the quotidien requirements of being a mother while also being pregnant and having run out of chocolate?

And although you don't make the tempting deletions, and you resist defacing the nauseatingly cheerful Dora doll with a Sharpie pen, and you do, thankfully, wake up the next day feeling a little more balanced, you decide that you need to be a lot more careful about your declarations about happiness, because the gods are bitches, and they will fuck with you if you get cocky.

And then you go buy more chocolate.