This was a telling tweet. But I sent it out as I send most tweets, light heartedly, once it’s gone, it’s forgotten. Yes, it had started with a tummy ache, which with kids, is just another day at the office for a parent. I rubbed it, hugged him to make it all better and watched him sleep.

Then he couldn’t make it through the day in school the next day, and began to lose his appetite. And when the low grade fever appeared I figured was a stomach big than would just have to run his course.

But my boy who normally runs everywhere he goes couldn’t stand up straight. He walked hunched over and moaned in pain. He lay in my bed while I put up groceries, and then he let out a scream I will never forget. I dropped everything and drove him to the first hospital I could find, his twin sister in tow.

After six hours of labs, scans and tests, he was diagnosed with the one thing that I had pushed to the back oft mind as one of my outrageous hypochondriacal fears. It was his appendix, and it was ruptured.

It was the first time I felt the weight of being away from family and friends. The first time that I realized that my mom was now more than three hours away as opposed to just around the corner.

But mostly I realized that for two days I had dismissed my son’s pain as something far less serious than it was.

Not that I or anyone could have predicted or prevented it, but still, there’s that old mommy guilt. There’s the what ifs and the woulda, coulda, shouldas.

So today here we are, an emergency surgery later, on day six at the Children’s Hospital. He’s much better than he was before, but not well enough to go home.

I’m trying to make the best of it. Caring for him and reading and writing and keeping my fingers crossed that I can take him home soon.

And I guess that’s it. All I can say and all I can do. I appreciate the well wishes.



I seldom feel the need to explain myself, and I never intended to start now. But since the news of my family’s move to Atlanta has been met with the general inquisition of “why,” I’ve been feeling the need to explain myself, to tick off reasons why we’ve decided to leave this grand old place, and basically, sell the idea of Atlanta to people who are not only not coming with us, but probably won’t even visit.

Our “why” basically is this, though.

We live in a rural area, and though my husband works for the federal government, his particular placement has little room for advancement right now. Atlanta has that. We do have family here, because we were born and raised here. However, that has been a blessing and a curse. Family is there for help and support, but only when they can and want to, and family tends to overstep their bounds. Hell, I’ll say it, my mother especially.

When you have the comfort and convenience of family, it’s hard to motivate yourself to go it on your own. For instance, I almost never have issues with babysitting. On the other hand, my mother often treats me like a teen mom and coaches me (without solicitation) through whatever thing I’m dealing with concerning the children.

We have special needs children, I’ve said that before. The school district has been accommodating, but all the while letting us know that they only have so many resources available and there is only so much they can do. We are relocating to a place where there will be many more resources for the children.

And also, despite their challenges, my children are gifted, but there are no resources here to help nurture their talents besides basic school activities. If my daughter wants to dance, she has to do it in her bedroom.

Finally, we will be in a place where, at last, I can give the proper time and attention to my own career. And not law enforcement. I’ll get to really give freelancing a shot, and I’ll be in a prime place to promote my book next year.

So, there you have it. Those are just a couple of reasons why other than, damn it, it’s our party and we’ll move if we want to.

Subbing Season

Writing, subbing and reading submissions for my own call has taken up a good bit of my time, and left me neglectful of my blog. I do apologize. Being this busy, though, is apparently a good thing as I awakened to good submission news this morning, which I will reveal details about when I’m given the green light.

My submission stats for 2013 are currently two for two, and I have two pending. This also means that I need to write and sub even more so that I have more in the que.

I’m getting some great stories for Can’t Get Enough, but I really need to get my read and selection on so that I can come back before the deadline and let you all know what I’m still missing. And um, yeah, I need to write my own story for that one, too.

Also, on that note, I’ve recently found some submissions in my spam folder. I don’t know why they landed there, but it made me feel terrible that I had submissions a month old and hadn’t responded to the authors. It is my personal policy to always acknowledge receipt of submissions, so if you submit somethig to me and don’t hear back from me within 72 hours, please assume I haven’t received it and get in touch with me.

I made this mistake on the opposite end with an editor once. Assumed my story was received and it wasn’t and almost missed out on a publishing opportunity. Actually, this has happened twice. Both times, though, I learned of the mistake just in time.

But, I digress, and I’m tired just thinking about it all, and trying to get over illness, and taking care of two sick kiddies, who the hell has time to be tired?

"I’m on Valium; Everything’s okay."

It’s been a running joke for me the last few months, how I would just love for my doctor to prescribe me Valium and make everything okay. I made light of it because I know that there is often a stigma attached to people relieving their stress, anxiety and depression with medication. I, however, have been doing so since my early twenties. My mother only just realized that I take anti-depressants and anxiety medication. She often asks why and if she contributed to the reason, but that’s neither here nor there at this point, so I simply tell her “no.”

And I can’t really blame any one person or thing unless it’s myself and my inability to properly express myself and not fear the consequences and repercussions. I over-compensate. I bend over backwards to make sure everyone else is happy and I rarely, if ever ask for help.

So, I took myself to the doctor last week and told him, without too much detail, the current height of my stress level. He recommended Ativan, but I insisted on Valium because I know better than anyone that I am, indeed, at that point.

He gave it to me. At first, it felt like I was taking a placebo. I wanted it to work and I wanted it to work fast. Turns out I had to adjust my dosage just a little and then…eureka.

I don’t want to depend on a pill to “deal,” but during a particularly tough time today, I popped one. It was either that or break down crying and have to leave my job because I was such a wreck.

But…I prefer this to my other self, where I scream and hit and cry and beg and beg for my voice to be heard to no avail. Right now, I’m still not being heard, I’m still being misunderstood, but…I kinda don’t give a fuck.

That in and of itself seems pretty harsh and cold, but I can’t continue being the only one who cares, the only one who feels anything, the only one who’s hurt. So, if it takes me having to pop a “happy” pill now and again to keep myself from saying or doing something I shouldn’t then, so be it.

I don’t care that my husband is not talking to me. I don’t care that when he does talk to me it’s with anger and resentment in his voice. I don’t care that he hasn’t fucked me and probably won’t anytime soon. I just don’t fucking care.

The mind boggling thing, though, is that if he has this massive misperception of me, if he thinks me to be this horrible person who doesn’t have his and our family’s best interest at heart, why the hell is he still here? Why is wasting his time and mine?

I am perfectly self-sufficient. I left home at 18 and never, ever looked back… well, except that one time in ’06, lol. Still. I can take care of me and mine. But, I don’t go around screaming this to him. I need him, absolutely, but in totally different ways than he realizes.

I need him to know and understand me. I need him to see and hear me. It’s been five years, why has this not happened yet? Or am I just too naïve to see and accept that it never will?