blogging under pressure ....

I used to think it would be easy to just plop myself down and start writing. A book, I thought, I will write a book. It will become a best seller and I will be on easy street.

Easy street? I can't even blog a decent paragraph lately. Let's just say that I have a new found respect for people who consistently produce not only readable, but interesting posts... day after day... week after week, hell... year after year... (some of you).

I could blog about my dog, (the urinator) and how today was his first day alone all day since my son went back to school and how he DID NOT pee in the house...

I could blog about how my payroll software went down 20 minutes before deadline for submittal....

I could blog about how wonderful you guys are... (the consistent few who read this...)

Or I could get real for once and tell you... I am having a rough week. I made some decisions when I came to this country that were hard for me to live with. Most days I manage to push past the guilt and have a relatively normal life... most days I laugh, and smile and have a grand old time.

And then there are some days, like Sunday.

When I sort through the stack of mail on the table and find a letter from my mother that had been there the whole weekend and I never got around to it till then.

There are some days, when the guilt comes up and slaps me in the face and jerks me around a bit and reminds me that I have made mistakes in my past that I will probably have to pay for for a very long time to come.

I could handle that. I like to think I am a pretty strong person. The thing I am having a hard time with is the fact that my decision affected other people.

I have three sons. Not just Jake. Two of them are still in Canada. Two of them I haven't seen in three years. Two of them I think about every single day and question whether I made the right decision.

Sunday, when I opened my mail from my mother... there was a letter in it that she forwarded on to me containing letters from my boys. And pictures. And a report card. Looking at the pictures, I am almost sure now that I made the right decision. They look happy. The report card is a good one. (Much better than mine at that age). The realist in me is sure I did the right thing. The mother in me however, berates me at every turn.

Most of the time, I can handle the internal conflict.

And then there are days like Sunday.