Sunny is Eight

Sunny is 8

As I gave Sunny her bedtime hug last night, I told her that it was a little sad to think that this was the last time I would be the mother of a seven year-old.

“Unless you have another baby,” she said.

“The very last time,” I replied, hugging her a little tighter.

“Mom! Can’t! Breathe!” she said, then giggled like a hyena-loon hybrid and kissed my ear.

She was so excited to be almost eight that she couldn’t settle down. “It’s okay, Mommy. I know how to sleep-wiggle!” she said.

Sunny Getting Down

I would have called her on it, but she might be right. This kid never walks—she dances and bounces and skips and jumps over all the cracks she can so my back doesn’t get hurt.

Super Sunny3She loves superheroes and dogs—the last time we went to the Family Museum, she bought two little dog figurines with Her Own Money and named them Connor and M’gann.  When I asked her where she’d found those names, she rolled her eyes and said, “After Superboy and Miss Martian from Young Justice.  Duh, Mom.”

Super Sunny has pledged her allegiance to DC, but still cuddles up to watch Agents of SHIELD with me and has Opinions about the Marvel Universe.  She thinks Tony Stark is a hoot, but Captain America needs a secret identity.

And that the Hulk needs a hug.

Super Sunny ReadsShe also loves to read. A few months ago, I found her in the bathroom, standing naked from the waist down with a wad of clean toilet paper in her hand, lost to the world in the open book on the counter.  She’d apparently hopped off the commode, glanced at a page, and immediately forgotten where she was in the proceedings.

“She’s yours, all right,” my mother told me, after she stopped laughing.

She’s also a Wesson.  Last week, at dinner, she passed more gas, loud and prolonged, than a non-parent would think could be held in a body that small.

“‘Scuse me!”  she said, calmly.  And then, as her older sister fell off her chair cackling, and the adults around the table tried to gather themselves to explain proper protocol without doing the same, Sunny nodded to herself in satisfaction and said, “I have very good manners.”

It’s no surprise that she was due on April Fool’s Day and then tricked us all into throwing her a birthday party a day early, by doing an unexpected, last-minute somersault in utero.

Come to think of it, that’s probably what she was trying to do last night, as I tucked in my seven year-old, one last time.

 Happy birthday, Sunny-girl.

We love you.

Even your sister.

When Janie Met Sunny


Weekend Writing Warriors: Odd Duck (Double Dog Dare)

We WriWa bannerHave a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?

Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!

Rules are here!

List of participants is here!


When last we left him, our hero Tom—former army sniper, current PI, and born wereduck—was visiting stately Rhombeck manor, home of the leader of the Talbot City werewolf pack, in order to interrogate Travis Rendall, the west coast werewolf who attacked him in the first chapter.

Tom was led to the lower level “retaining rooms” by Merrok, the pack’s Seneschal and one lady who does not suffer fools.  At all.

She’s speaking first:



“I’ll wait in the rotunda; Press the red button if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” I said, carefully not watching her walk away.

Travis Rendall smirked. “That’s a fine piece of tail,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “I double dog dare you to say that without these bars in the way.”

He huffed in contempt.

“I smell you haven’t taken advantage of the showers, yet,” I said.


Tom has to suffer fools all the time, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

I have no idea why I bothered to write “Travis Rendall” every single time his name comes up.  I’d like to say that I wasn’t sure whether Tom was going to call him Travis or Rendall, so I wrote it all out to make it easier to do a universal change later . . . but that’s giving me far too much credit.


I think there are four or five spot still open in the cabin Christina Ochs and I started over at Camp Nanowrimo.  Most of us are going to easy route with a monthly goal of 30,000 words (or in my case, 30 hours of editing), but you can set it as low as 10,000 words, which is only around 334 words a day.

Won’t you join us?

Random Thursday: Random Squeefuls

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.

Once again, we were reminded that the Calendar Spring is not Weather Spring, as the first robin was encased in ice during Monday’s snow infestation.

But there is still squee to be found, if you look.  Or your friends do and send it to you.

Thanks, guys.


Introducing:  My Spirit Animal

Manatee Hug

Now giving free hugs!

(Thanks, liligriff!)



That is all.

Baby Hedgies

My husband sent me this, presumably because he thought the high pitch of my reaction would knock something loose in my sinuses.

Thanks, honey.


Watch This

And then watch it again and mark the time
when you said, “Wait. Whoa.”
and report it in the comments, please.

Mine was about 18 seconds in.

And then 46.

And at 1:03.

And 1:56.

I love this so, so much.



Sunny called them Squidvengers, which is even better.


Me: I wonder how easy these are to assemble?

Kev:  Well, they are filled with glorious polyfiber.

(Thanks, Watson!  You’re right, these are two of my favorite thiiiiiings!)


“There’s No Way to Outsquee Baby Hedgies.”

Cumberbatch Tiggie

Your argument is invalid.


Literal Time Suck

Jane introduced me to a series of trailers on YouTube which hilariously describe every single thing that’s going on in them–including the production symbols—not only with subtitles, but a sort of Gregorian Chant that isn’t half bad.

She started me on one for Assassin’s Creed IV: Black Flag, which I loved
(“Colonial Running Shoe Commercial . . . “),
even though I had no prior knowledge of the game, but I decided to show one for a movie that I’ve actually seen.  Twice.

Trust me and stop at 1:50—the video are good, but the junk at the end is annoying for anyone not of a certain demographic.

 The Hobbit is good, too.  Or Harry Potter.

Or, you know, all of them . . .


Mike Allegra, children’s author, blogger, artist, keeper of houses, teller of hilarious family stories, and all around good guy, recently held one of his ever-popular doodle contests—and I won!

And even though he is suffering a debilitating injury to his drawing hand, he sent me this:

jitteryThis is Jittery–my very own Caffeine Gnome!

Just look at him!  Those eyes, those slippers, that clear sense of involuntary vibration!

He’s a lot more cheerful than I usually imagine them, but my experiences are generally affected by caffeine withdrawal, which tends to elevate even the figments of my imagination to DefCon-2 Cranky and has them looking around for drums, bagpipes, and ice picks with which to express their displeasure, until I offer suitable apologies and double their rightful tribute in the form of Americanos, mochas, diet Pepsis, and or straight up chocolate-covered beans.

But Jittery is clearly one Gnome who has consumed perhaps a little more than his fair share and is planning to ride the coffee train until the inevitable crash.

I like that in a metaphor.  And I adore this drawing.

Thanks, Mike!

Weekend Writing Warriors: Odd Duck (Snack Time)

We WriWa bannerHave a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?

Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!

Rules are here!

List of participants is here!


Or if you’re a fellow Facebook addict (we can quit any time we want to, right?),
why not check out the offerings of the Snippet Sunday gang?


When last we left him, Tom described one of the “retaining rooms” in the basement of Lowell Rhombeck, the leader of the Talbot City werewolf pack.

This week, we take a look at the room’s occupant.

Duck Pate

Travis Rendall was lounging on the bed, watching the TV embedded in the wall behind a clear pane of something that appeared to be reasonably werewolf-proof, despite the four diagonal furrows scratched across its surface.

I suspected Travis; he was wearing a thick, padlocked collar with silver studs around it and a red rash underneath.

“He’s been a bad boy,” Merrok said, tapping a series of numbers on the pad by the door. The TV shut off.

Travis turned his head to look at us. “Is it snack time already?” he asked, eying me.

His smile showed a mouthful of bad teeth but no fangs.  The silver was doing its job.


Don’t worry: no wereducks were harmed in the writing of this scene. Travis is just being his obnoxious self.


Hey, is anyone planning to go to Camp Nanowrimo next month?  Could I persuade you?  It’s a lot less intense than the National Novel Writing Month and an excellent excuse to eat S’mores at your desk.

Christina Ochs and I have set up a private cabin, which holds twelve and has its own on-call barista.  If you want to join us, drop me a Camp Message once you’ve signed up (I’m Sarah W over there, too) and I’ll send you an invitation (Christina, did you get yours?).

Cabin assignments will be given by the hosts in three days and Camp starts April first!