Tuesday, November 10, 2009
I am one of those fine people who place undue pressure and guilt on myself. Insert smart-ass looking over my shoulder that is simultaneously gagging himself with his index finger and rolling his eyes. And yes, the universal pronoun for smart-ass is masculine.
Whenever I take a blogging break, or a writing break, or a sewing break, or a break from cleaning the house, I have a hard time getting back into it. The interlude was so nice. You know? You get a whiff of being lazy and it feels good. Damn good.
Then it starts to eat at ya. The whole, I’m not very productive. I’m going to loose all creative thought I’ve ever had. Also, there’s the pressure of creating a colossal anti-climax. If only for myself. And as we all know, the very worst thing any person can ever do is disappoint themselves.
So it is with trepidation and no real good ideas that I dip my toes back in the water before the break becomes so long that I can’t come back at all without earth shattering news. Since we all know I’m never getting pregnant again, I better start writing.
And, I have a dilemma.
My little Mason hates swimming lessons. I don’t know what has spooked him. He was getting along swimmingly and had caught up with Cooper on ribbons. But in the past month has actually regressed – in part because he got silly putty stuck in his goggles. But that’s another post for another day. Does anyone know how to effectively motivate apprehensive swimmers back in the water? (And NO, not those kinds of swimmers.)