They call him... Tim

In one month, my nephew is going to turn 18-years-old. He won't be 18 in time to vote in this election, but he'll turn 18 in time to pay the price if the wrong man is elected.

I remember very well when he was born. I was in Mrs. Bullard's homeroom when I was called down to the office where they let me know that he was here. Not at the school, just in the philosophical sense of the word. That was pretty neat. I remember it so well because that was the first time I ever felt that whoosh of pure happiness and excitement for a new little person in the world. My sister had a tough go of it and they ended up having to take him by C-section. It was so rushed they nicked his teeny little eyebrow. You can see the mark in his hospital baby photo. You know, the photo where they poke and prod this little human who's still a bit damp from his trip into a pained half "smile" for the sake of posterity. And for the giggle of it. He looks like Vanilla Ice from "Ice Ice Baby"-era. We took him home anyway.

I'm proud of my sister and brother-in-law for keeping him fed and warm all this time. It took some doing, but they persevered. And he's worth it. So far. He was my first niece/nephew type (of countless many) and he's held his own in the pack enough to stand out mightily. I like his style and who he's turning out to be. I have great hopes for him. He's got the shinin', that one.