In which I am ready to become an aunt, yesterday. At the latest.

My brain is normally a hubbub of philosophical meanderings interrupted by errant to-do list items and real-world attention-grabbers.

The last week or so, contemplation has been displaced by straightforward compulsive thinking.

About my nephew. The one whose ETA was Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving was Thursday. It’s Sunday evening now. There is 100% less nephew-o’-Deb in this world than I’d like to see right now–or, better still, right three days ago.

OK, nephew. You've built up your suspense. Deliver already!

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Full days, fuller heart

Follow the link to read yesterday’s guest post:
My little man & “mama” me-a

No better time for books than bedtime!

Their lives depend on it

After my weekend posts on bullying, I meant for my next post to be tomorrow’s sweet, uplifting guest post about a day in my life with Li’l D.

It was to the sounds of my tiny man’s morning stirrings that I stumbled upon this article about ten-year-old Jasmine McClain’s suicide last week.

My heart just about stopped at these words:
“I just lost it because she took her last breath in my arms.”

And I knew as I listened to my son’s sounds that I had one more thing left to say on the subject of abuse, of which bullying is a form:

IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT YOU ARE ABUSED.

It is okay to talk about. It should be talked about.

As I posted in a comment on Facebook:

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My bully pulpit

I do not understand how parents can see pictures of kids like Ashlynn Conner and still say “kids are just being kids.” How can any parent not imagine what it would be like to never hold their own child again, over something that could–and should–have been stopped a hundred times over?

Taunt. Bully. Beat. Molest.

Ugly words for uglier actions, all inspired by the same beast: want of power.

These words aren’t just words for me. They’re images and memories, heartbreak and resolve.

When I hear the word “bullying,” I think of the parents who told my mom she was a horrible mom, comfortably and confidently in the vicinity of me and their own children.

When their children taunted and belittled in turn, it was hardly surprising. Like parent, like child.

It was clear to me that it boiled down to power. “Power” was being able to do these horrible things and just call it the natural order of things.

Someday, I vowed, I would be so powerful no one would dare try establishing dominion over me by coercion or cruelty.

I was in sixth grade the last time I was bullied by anyone who knew me.

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FTIAT: Take A Sip

Tori (The Ramblings) snared me immediately with her simultaneously exuberant and deeply considered posts. This combination of traits, only seldom seen traveling as such constant companions in the wilds of blogland, is enthralling enough, but do you suppose the magic stops there?

Not a chance! The fact she’s having her blog readers help plan her wedding is sure to have you wanting to know more, and be a part of that joy.

Recommended post: R & R (And R)

Take a Sip

“For myself I am an optimist – it does not seem to be much use being anything else.” - Sir Winston Churchill

I stood at the mouth of the ocean. The salt brushed loose from the breeze. Sand wrapped my toes. A baby babbled in the background. Just hushing wave, a child’s laughter, hushing wave, whirling winds, a child’s brilliant happiness. This is the best kind of lullaby, I thought. I love everything here.

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All aboard to Evenbettersville!

I started TMiYC as a writing blog, only to find I had little patience for writing such a thing. TMiYC thus became a writer’s blog.

I started TMiYC’s Facebook page as a place to post links to new blog entries. I did that for several weeks before From the Bungalow “pimped” me on his page one Wednesday, introducing me to a bunch of people who’d never have found TMiYC otherwise—and vice versa!

In both cases, I started with one purpose only to abandon that purpose to something more important: the joy of connecting with others at a level beyond that afforded by casual conversation.

Some of the sweetest connections have been with other bloggers. One such blogger read something I’d written as an 18-year-old and wrote words so sweet I barely knew how to reply:

I thought on those words for a little while. When I’d finally regained my ability to manipulate words, I replied with a new status:

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Just call me . . . Accountability Girl?

“I’m nothing if not a willpower machine.”

These adorable words appeared in my May entry “Accountability, activate!”

In that entry, I proclaimed that I was really, finally going to heed my doctor’s admonitions about eating right for my reflux problem. I’d made myself accountable to you, my dear readers, and that meant there was no going back.

For almost two entire weeks, I stuck to my plan like a boss.

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Penn State & the village

[ read entry ]

Author Deb on The Monster’s Daughter, writing & flying

Elizabeth Wakefield, identical twin protagonist of a few hundred Sweet Valley books, is blonde, blue-eyed and size 6.

I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.

Wait, you don’t think it’s because of what I wrote above, do you?

Of course it isn’t! Well, the absolutely splendiferous nature of her childhood was appealing, but there was something else about Elizabeth that evoked a yearning in me.

She wanted to be a writer.

[ click to read more & find the interview link ]

“Author Deb,” interviewed

My first author interview goes live at Literary Escapism tomorrow.

I’m excited.

I’m terrified.

But I’m definitely excited.

As well as terrified.

I think you get the picture.

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FTIAT: Seven Days

Kasey (Single Working Mom) writes about life exactly as she lives it, addressing maddening, depressing and uplifting matters alike with candor and grace. What gets written on her blog is only half the magic of following her blog, though; the remainder falls into the equally candid email exchanges we would never have begun but for her blog! I am always delighted to read her words, no matter which forum they reach me through.

Recommended post: A Visit with Dad

Seven Days

All week long I was living in the town of Anxiety. Stressed to the gills about taking my daughter, Maycee, down to Grandma’s for the rest of the week, while she was sick, for a “vacation” we had planned long ago before summer began. She had a myriad of illnesses hit her at one time, two emergency room visits; I had already missed two days of work, preparing myself to miss more if her fever didn’t subside. After a follow-up visit with the pediatrician, ear infection was gone, her fever was denounced as not much to worry about, and the cold, well, it was just a cold. With the game plan in place to proceed with grandma’s visit if the doc said all systems go, we were in the car, bags packed with Blanky, Bluey, and Crystal Kitty, heading south to meet her dad for pickup and transport. Maycee was excited to be going, ready to have some change of scenery after four days couch-ridden at home, but within a short amount of minutes she was crashing out in the back seat, tired and plainly spent.

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