Like a river to a raindrop, I lost a friend.

 HBD, Eric.  I miss you.

Fake it till you make it.

If all goes well, I'll be applying for the nursing program this time next year.
I almost can't admit that there's an end in sight; that I'm so close to my goal, I can taste it.
It feels like I'm being too vulnerable, and a part of me wants to make a disclaimer statement. You know, just incase something goes wrong.

I met with an advisor last week and she broke down the classes I still need over the next three terms.
There it was on paper; no denying that I'm making progress.
She made a big fuss over my 4.0. I had to force myself to take the compliment. I really wanted to tell her that I'm just faking it. That none of this is real.
Wouldn't that have been funny?!

Truth is, the writing based courses were so easy, I can't imagine not getting a A's. It's these science based courses that I'm worried about. I could write papers about Roman culture , or Sigmund Freud's theories all day, but understanding carbon bonds and the breakdown of complex fatty acids? What, what?

A nurse midwife I used to work with told me she faked her way through nursing school without ever learning how to take blood pressure. She said one day it just clicked for her, but until that point, she had to fake it.

That example has kept me in the game. Everybody learns in a different way; meanwhile, we have to make ourselves fit into the box when necessary.
I was born a nurse, I've always been a nurse at heart.
The rest is just a technicality.
And I'm gonna fake it till I make it.

we just needed an outing.

Tonight, after dinner and a day full of homework and housekeeping, my daughter and I walked to the corner coffee shop for some of their famous cake.  The shop is called 3 layers in homage to their sky-high southern style cakes.  And trust me, they are worth the (almost) five dollars a slice.  

Anyway, my daughter isn't good at staying home all day, she thrives on the hustle bustle of life.  I'm the exact opposite, so sometimes we have to compromise.  She has to compromise a lot more since I started school and weekends are devoted to studying. 

But I needed a break and she needed an outing, so off we went.  

I could feel the heaviness of her heart, for whatever worries she had in the moment; all set ablaze by cabin fever.  Sometimes it's hard to be a 15 year old girl, you know? 

We didn't talk much on the walk, her enthusiasm level was basically flat lined.   

But I could feel the night air filling my soul and I figured she could, too.  

I could hear kids playing in back yards and people laughing on their porches.

The breeze was blowing around a bouquet of dinner smells; the sound of clanking dishes echoed from kitchen windows.  

It was open mic nite at the coffee shop, but then again, it's always open mic nite at 3 layers.  

It was a sweet little man doing the best he could; I don't remember what he was singing.

  

We got our cake to go, orange slice and chocolate espresso. yum. 

While we were waiting, we saw our neighbor and friend, Daniel.

My brother's house is 2 doors down, but he didn't appear to be home, so we kept walking.

On the way back home, more neighbors said hello.

It had gotten darker, so you could see the inside of the beautiful houses that line my street.  

The banisters, the art hanging on the walls, I try not to be a stalker, but it's hard not to look.  

As we walked with our ten dollars worth of cake, I felt like a million dollars. 

I love our neighborhood so much. 

Meanwhile, my daughter's steps got a little springier, and later the cake helped everything, too.

It was a win/win situation.  

My dad used to always say, "when spirits are low, you just need an outing." 

It's so true.  

somebody's someone

Today, I saw my uncle, David, walking down the street.
I hadn't seen him in over 8 years, but I instantly knew it was him.  His posture, his frame, the way he walks is trademark.  I'd know him a mile away.

We were driving pretty fast down a busy expressway, so I couldn't stop to say hello.
He was hunched over and tired looking, he has aged quite a bit, too.
It made me sad in the depths of my heart;
there was my uncle walking down the street like a pauper.
Truth is, he's a brilliant mind with a trust fund,
but I'm sure he's mistaken for a homeless person. I'm sure people are mean to him.
It breaks my heart to think of what his life has been like, especially in contrast to all the other Stetsons.

I have two uncles named David, but this one happens to be schizophrenic.
My mom always told me it was from him doing too many drugs in the 60's.
But we'll never know for sure if that's true.
When he first starting showing signs of mental illness, my memaw was advised to institutionalize him.
In that time, it was just what happened.
I know she felt guilty, what mother wouldn't?
But she was a widow, and his meltdowns really scared her.

He was always a part of family holidays and visits.
He'd always lurk in the outskirts of whatever was going on; he was always a little nervous.
The way he'd ask permission to have a glass of champagne, or a cigarette, always made me sad.
I was very sensitive to the fact that he was, and always would be, treated like a child.
In fact, he used to sit with us at the kids' table on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but we didn't mind.

He kept us guessing as to what he'd say next.  

And his stories were always worth re-tellig to my friends.  

I don't think he ever made it to the adult table, poor guy. 

Memaw always worried about what would become of him after she died.
My uncle Brad has done an outstanding job with his care.
Over the years, he seemed to enjoy family events less and less.
He just likes to do his own thing;
I don't really blame him.
I'm not sure if he'd even know me anymore.

Any mother will tell you that her children are an extension of her heart, and
I felt that today as I passed by him.
There was a living, breathing part of my memaw.
He's distant and broken, like a mixture of  a cowboy and vagabond.
He looks like he's walked a thousand miles in the desert, but he's hers.
And in that same breath, he's mine.
He is my family.

Kinda changes my perspective on all the displaced people I see around my neighborhood.
They are somebody's someone, too.

Live to tell.

It was a close call, but I survived the move!

We've been happily living in our house on walnut street for a month, and I love it more everyday.
All I can say is, what a difference an additional 800 square feet makes to a family of 5!
Everyone has seemed to benefit from the extra space, even the dogs.

We're the kind of people who get sick of the same scenery after a while; moving downtown was medicine for sure. I don't think I'll ever get sick of it down here. I seriously can't imagine living anywhere else.

Moving on.

Moving has my nerves completely shot.
It's funny how I remember so few details of our move from Alabama 2 years ago.
But I'm sure I was a total spazz then, too.
I remember leaving almost half of our stuff on the curb because we thought the middle size truck would be big enough, but it wasn't.
I remember everybody stinking to high heaven after packing the truck and thinking we'd shower before we hit the road, but we had packed all the towels and clothes. And soap.
And then we drove through the night in a car with no a/c and had 2 dogs and a cat with us.
OMG, we probably stunk so incredibly bad.

Maybe in 2 years I'll hardly remember this move, too.
That will be awesome.

I think what it comes down to is that I hate change.
Even if it's a good change, it just takes me a while to be okay with it.
But I'm so excited about the house and the new neighborhood.

The kids only have a few more days of school left.
Brace yourselves because the "back to school" posts will be coming soon.
If you know me, you know that back to school almost slays me every year.
It's like tax season for an accountant, or the olympics for an athlete, except nobody pays me and I get no metals.

Happy summer, y'all.

Life changing.

Y'all know I love Oprah.
Well, she interviewed T.D. Jakes a few weeks ago and I absolutely fell in love with him.
Sure, I had seen him on tv before and noticed his books in the grocery store, but never really thought too much about it.

The excerpts of his sermon featured on the show have changed me.
I cannot tell you how many times since then I've heard the words. "He's blessing something that isn't enough."

His retelling of a simple bible story was profound to me and Oprah, too. That's probably because we're soul sisters!

I found the sermon all typed out online, it may not be verbatim, but you'll get the idea.

“...You know the story as well as I do.

The little boy there with 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread. Then the miracle begins to occur.

And He took it, and He blessed it. And I’d like to talk about that because He’s blessing something that is not enough.

Until you can be thankful for something that is not enough; then what you have cannot be multiplied into what is more than enough.

We are certain that he has 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread when He blessed it. As he broke it, that’s where we lose count.

You understand then that the blessing is in the breaking. That that refuses to be broken, refuses to be blessed. It is the breaking of life that produces the blessing of life.

Now, I know a lot of you don’t understand that because you yourselves have not been broken, but I have noticed in my life that the most blessed people I have ever met in my life have gone through something that has broken them."

—Bishop T.D. Jakes

tonight, we are young.

And by "we," I mean Alexandria and her 8th grade classmates.
She had her first (non-sponsored)school dance on Friday night.
I never went to school dances, except for my senior prom.
I was more of a house-party girl and because of that, I am definitely encouraging the school parties; even if they're non-sponsored.  I'll pay the money just to keep my kid away from house-parties.

It was totally bittersweet to drop her off.
I advised her to just dance because everybody has more fun when they're dancing.
She had a little mini panic attack, and while I basically forced her out of the car, I thought about how she is so much braver than me.

I parked in the grass because the Volvo is pretty much to the point of embarrassing both of us.
I watched her walk in, high-heels sinking in the dirt with every step.  I gave her a few minutes to decide if she really wanted to stay, and then I left for 2.5 hours.
In these moments, it hits me like a ton of bricks; I'm the mom now.
But wait, I was just in high-school. 

She starts high-school in 3 months.

Dear Aiya,

Enjoy your youth, little bird.
It's beautiful and fleeting.
Go and make the best friends you'll ever have.
Laugh, and dance, and sing, and splash in the ocean.
Just be free, and wise as you can be.
I'll always be waiting for you to come home.

-mom

like pictures in a frame.

I had a tear-invoking memory of Eric this morning.   
Every time I think of him my throat stings, but I can usually contain the tears.
Not this day.
I miss my friend so much.

Grief is a funny thing; how it comes in waves.
I just sat there alone, fanning my face and trying not to ruin my make up.
I just kept telling myself to get it together; it was only 8:15 a.m., and I look like crap with no make-up.

I'm thankful for all the memories,
even though they make my heart hurt sometimes.

I wrote this poem a long time ago, but I think it's fitting for today.
It's about the transition that people, places, and things take into being a memory or sentiment, and not wanting to let go.
The good thing is, we don't have to let go.
We just have to remember.
And remembering just happens to be one of my gifts. 

Oh sweet memories,
how they turn away and change,
or sell for cheap at a second hand store.

Frames on the wall tell all the years contained;
alluding to a life from day to day.

Say it ain't so,
you're going away?
Leaving me with all this change?

I will remember you every time I say goodbye.
It will always be the same,
I'll hear your name and close my eyes tight to bring a sight of you.

Memories, how they fade
like an old photograph in a frame.
Telling a story,
bringing a tear,
showing me beauty,
how I wish you were here.

Follow up.

Because I believe in the value of a good, solid praise report,
I must share that my dream of having an historic home will soon be realized. 
After months of making frequent visits to the historic district, and checking the classifieds for houses, I basically concluded that I was torturing myself because most of the renovated homes weren't in our price range.  I gave up several times and figured we would just stay put.  
However, hope remained springing up in me, and I had a lot of encouragement from my friends to just keep looking and see what happens. 


Once we found this house, which happens to be an awesome deal, I obsessed for about a week.
Feelings of fear were surfacing; fear of not wanting to be disappointed, and not wanting to make the wrong decision.  
With being on a tight budget and being a student, it's scary to change anything and open the door to the unknown.
What if the utility bills are sky high?
What if traffic is an issue?
Will we like the urban lifestyle?
What will I do without a garage?


Once we made a decision to just go for it, I haven't really worried at all.
I've also decided I will not live in fear.  

The house is beautiful, I absolutely love it. 
It's about 800 sq feet bigger than our current home.
It has lots of charm and character. 
It has a front porch and a sweet little entryway. 
The mailman walks across the porch to deliver the mail; I just love that! 
Original hardwood floors and mantles. 
Carlos finally gets a studio that isn't a walk-in closet.
I finally get a bedroom free of gear. (PTL)
Living, dining, kitchen, mudroom, office (studio.)
4 bedrooms, 3 full baths.
It was built in 1912.  


This might sound weird, but I feel like the house needs us.
To fill it with love, to respect its history.
The neighborhood is slowly returning to its original splendor after being run down for a period of time. There is so much potential there, and we get to be a part of that.


It just feels right.

I am so excited!

  

hanging in there.

Well, I had a full circle moment the other day when I cried in math class. 

They weren't happy tears, either.

They were the kind of tears that come when you realize that something will never be easy, and you're just so tired because of it.  

Math, ugh, the bane of my existence.  

I sailed through psychology, humanities, sociology, and human growth & development.

I heard the angels singing in English composition. 

But math is basically a foreign language for me. I just have to drill, drill, drill until it finally sinks in.  

My tear-filled full circle moment, was produced by the sting of a failing grade; something I hadn't experienced in almost 20 years.  I felt that absolutely nothing had changed between then and highschool.

There wasn't any amount of life experience that could change my proficiency, or lack thereof, in (pre)algebra.  

Math doesn't care how many babies you had, how many cupcakes you've frosted with a perfect swirl.  Math doesn't care how bad you want to understand. There's no points for effort.  

I drove home, almost hyperventilating from panic and disappointment. 

I wondered if I have what it takes to finish college and be a nurse. 

But then I realized there's only one way to find out, and it's to proceed.  

Truth is, I don't have a bad grade, (89.5.)

I re-took the quiz and passed.

It's just soooo hard for me to master the units that a good grade doesn't feel like a victory, it's just passage into an even harder unit.  

Getting my math credits is the only thing keeping me from taking Anatomy, micro-biology and Chemistry, and then I can apply for the program.  

OMG, y'all, college at 37 isn't for the faint of heart.  

History and wonder.

I love historic homes. They have a way of speaking to me way down deep. Whenever I see one, I can't help but wonder, has a baby been born in there, has anyone died in there, has anyone gotten engaged on that porch? My heart starts to bond with the story of the home, with the majesty of architectural details that have all but gone extinct. Waking across a wooden porch and opening a creaky screen door is heavenly to me. It makes me think of MeMaw's hunting lodge, and seeing grandma Stella's smile through the tinted mesh when I used to visit her.
I love pretty houses and manicured sidewalks.
I'd like to think I'm going to have my very own historic home one day.
I'm just letting patience have her perfect work. Meanwhile, I dream.