On Moonlight.

"You can't be what you can't see."

~ Anonymous.

I do not mind seeing you in hair salons or in chic shopping malls. Laughing louder than the rest with exaggerated hand gestures and a language all your own. Occasionally addressing your closest friends by the word used to describe a female dog even though they are neither female or canine. Hips swinging just a little more than usual, eyebrows telling the world that you don't conform to any gender. Or you do but you want to define what that looks like. No. I don't mind that at all.

But.

I do mind that this--even if it is authentically you--gets amplified into this larger-than-life caricature that elbows all of the other facets of those like you to the shadows. That I do mind.

When I was sixteen, I lived in Inglewood, California. I was what rapper L.L. Cool J would have referred to as an "around the way" girl with two pairs of bamboo earrings in my ears, easy subject verb disagreement, and neck rolling to get my point across often times than not. I remember standing behind the counter at my job as a cashier at Foot Locker in the now extinct Hawthorne Mall chewing a gigantic wad of Hubba Bubba, poking the register with my elaborately decorated acrylic nails and greeting each customer with the same three words: "How you doing?"

No. Not "how ARE you doing" or "how're you doing" but exactly what I just said. And this wasn't because I was trying to be something or create some version of me. This was just who I was at that time. And that was fine.

But I was also a lot of other things. And so were my friends. Some were nothing like me, voices with the singsongy twang of the Valley due to their lives on opposite sides of town. Others were far more unabashedly urban than me, the varsity cheerleader Foot Locker cashier, and that was cool, too. My best friend was studious, outgoing and neither of these things. And all of us represented what young, coming-of-age black girls looked like.

Yeah.

So I found myself reflecting on this after going to see a movie the other day. This independent film that had gotten a lot of critical acclaim but that, for the most part, has ridden slightly below the radar of the mainstream. A friend had seen it and loved it and thought I would, too. I had a few hours off on Monday, so we met up to see it together. Even though we saw a daytime matinee, this movie "Moonlight" left my soul mixed with the same melancholy one feels when standing under a gleaming full moon.

Yeah.

And let me be clear: There was so, so much to take in from this movie. But I guess the thing that keeps floating to the surface of my thoughts is how beautifully you were portrayed.

Yes, you.

No one was snapping in a Z formation. Not one individual called another friend "bitch" in jest or pronounced the word "yes" with a soft A followed by a loud cackle. And no, there is nothing wrong with that, you know? I mean, if that is you. But this movie, this sublime piece of work, put the other pieces of the dream that makes up who you are on a gigantic screen for all to see. For me to see.

And seeing stuff makes you less afraid and confused, you know? Yes. That.

The friend I saw the movie with is like you. A same-gender loving black man with thoughts and feelings and a life time of experiences that has shaped him into who he is. And seeing it with him, perhaps, made my breath hitch even more. I realized that I thought I saw him for all these years. But I hadn't fully. And am still working to see him.

This? This movie helped me with that. It showed the complexities of growing up in a world that isn't always filled with love. Navigating a shitty environment while also struggling to find and own who you are. And no. It wasn't a "gay movie." It wasn't. It was an exquisite portrayal of a sliver of life. A piece that has been there all along but that we don't get to see. Even those of us that call ourselves looking hard with eyes wide open.

Yeah.

My Wet 'n' Wild .99 cent lipstick, door-knocker earrings and biker shorts probably did fit some cartoonish idea of the 1980's black girl back then. Spike Lee put us on mainstream screens with all of that, just like (some of us) were in real life and that felt good. But right next to lolly pop licking neighborhood girls were the Ruby Dees and the other grown ass black women splashed upon those movie screens. All the different versions of us. We were also on small screens as Claire Huxtable or collegiates like Lisa Bonet and her friends on "A Different World." Not only did we get to see them, so did the world.

So did the world.

At first, I was sort of speechless when "Moonlight" ended. My soul was stirring but I didn't know how to feel. I walked to the restroom afterward and came out still drying my hands on a paper towel. My friend David M. was standing there chatting with the movie theater manager, Chuckie, who also happened to be a same-gender loving black man. I smiled at them both.

"Well? What did you think of the movie?" Chuckie asked.

I parted my lips to speak and suddenly felt like I'd been punched in my chest. My eyes welled up with tears and I started full on crying. Hard. It was actually rather embarrassing.

"Why are you crying, hon?" Chuckie's tone was gentle. He really wanted to know. All I could do was shrug.

David knows me so just sort of watched and waited. I then saw a tear trickle down his cheek but never asked why it was there. I tried to express myself but knew I wasn't making much sense. I just knew that my heart was feeling overwhelmed with emotion and . . I don't know. . .awareness, maybe? I don't know.

But not because it was a "gay movie" and that I'm so damn renaissance that now--oh yes, NOW--I'm all open-minded and down with the cause. Because that would reduce this to something akin to someone staring on the outside looking through the glass of a piece of art in the Louvre. Looking and staring but not touching or being a part of the painting.

See, David and Chuckie are just two people. Two very different people. And just like the protagonist, Chiron, in the movie "Moonlight" was one person, like them he had a story--his own story--and feelings, too. And not just like them--like me, too.

Sigh. I bet none of this is making sense. But what I am trying to unpack here is that Barry Jenkins, the man who brought this to the screen, unfolded an aspect of life that doesn't get shown like this. Joy, pain, sunshine and rain--the same kind we all feel and try hard as hell to sort out when we are young and confused about any and everything. And beautifully turns a mirror on all of us, you know?

Yes, that.

I think that's what made me cry. It dawned on me that we all want the same things--as children and as adults. To matter and to be cherished. That looks different ways to different people. But it is as necessary as air and water. Regardless of who you are.

Seeing that movie in a bona fide theater was a step in the direction of cherishing the narrative that so many live. More than the wise-cracking hair stylist talking shit with the marcel curling irons in his hand or the kid strutting down the street to jeers at a parade.

Kind of like how on "A Different World" I could identify with spunky Jada Pinkett's braid-wearing, lip-curling, shit-talking character right along with all of those cocoa-complexioned college girls on the same show trying to navigate young adulthood. I was all of them. And sometimes none of them. But it gave me value to see them all. But little did others know that it helped them to value me, too.  Because it helped those other people to not be afraid of me and my essence when coming into my presence. Or feel disappointed or confused when I don't fit the singular idea of what the media portrays me to be.

And see, that's what this movie did so bravely and beautifully. For me, that's what it did.

Does this make sense? I hope so.

And so. Today, I'm still basking in the afterglow of seeing "Moonlight." And today, I am reflecting on just this one teeny-tiny aspect of the many, many things I've been left to think about after seeing it.

Here's what I know for sure: I am better for seeing it. Because seeing it helped me see more of myself. Which ultimately helps me see more of you.

Yeah.

***
Happy Hump Day. And thanks, David, for trusting me to see it with you.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . .this was me. . .but not all of me. Then or now. 

Music Lyric Monday: Wide Open Spaces

Wide Open Spaces

Who doesn't know what I'm talking about?
Who's never left home, who's never struck out
to find a dream and a life of their own?
A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone

Many precede and many will follow
A young girl's dream no longer hollow
It takes the shape of a place out west
But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed

She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes

She traveled this road as a child
Wide eyed and grinning, she never tired
But now she won't be coming back with the rest
If these are life's lessons, she'll take this test

She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes
She knows the high stakes

As her folks drive away, her dad yells, "Check the oil!"
Mom stares out the window and says, "I'm leaving my girl."
She said, "It didn't seem like that long ago 
when she stood there and let her own folks know. . ."

She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes 

She knows the highest stakes
She knows the highest stakes
She knows the highest stakes
She knows the highest stakes 

~ The Dixie Chicks

_________________________________________

Today is the day my dear friend David M. officially moves away. The truck has been packed and his things have been sent. And right about now, he is somewhere pumping gas into his car and preparing to make that drive to Pennsylvania.

Something about this song has kept making me think of him. I feel myself inserting "he" in the place of "she" and imagining my wonder twin moving away from what had been his cozy professional home for something else. For some wide open spaces that, for him, could no longer be found where he was. 

Everyone was stunned. Leaving? Atlanta? Now? Yes. 

I can't say I was fully shocked. As his close friend I'd seen him itching for those wide open spaces and that zone of unpredictability that gives you room to make your big mistakes. For him, it was time. And yes. He knows the high stakes.

I've always loved that song and any song that's open for many interpretations. I always believed that we all face points in our lives where we need "wide open spaces." Sometimes it's just a simple redefinition of who we are. Other times it's a big step like packing up and moving to a completely different place. Those "new faces" can be in the literal sense or in the figurative sense with how we see and interact those around us.  

Yeah.

I love the dichotomy between the words "a place in the clouds, a foundation of stone." That made me think of my friend Angella Lister, whose daughter recently left for college. Those words touch me, reminding me that at some point we have to turn our children loose to live their dreams. We hope that we've equipped them with a solid sense of self and some kind of road map telling them how to give and receive authentic love. Because that? That's the foundation of stone that will allow those dreams to come true. Or at least a comeback if a failure is involved. 

So yeah. My friend Angella is living this. Her youngest now out of the house which has left her husband and her home in what some call an "empty nest." But as I type those words, I imagine that parents whose children have recently left the home aren't so keen on this term. Me? I like to think of this as a transition to some wide open spaces for Angella and her husband. Room to do things that parents with children in their homes don't always get to do. 

Also. I think of my mother when I hear that song. Growing up in a college town and then, much to her chagrin, moving all the way to Africa with her family after her father took a job in Liberia. Right before her senior year of high school, no less. Interestingly, she returned straight back to that same college town she'd grown up in to attend college. But that didn't last long. She met a handsome fraternity boy who would later become her husband. And also my father. He was a senior and she just a freshman. They married and had a baby. A bit stunning to her parents to say the least. 

And then? Dad's first real job? Out west. All the way in California. Now. Were her parents exactly delighted with all of these things changing so fast in their daughter's life? Uuuhh, my guess is not so much. But now that the whole thing has played itself out it's so clear. She needed wide open spaces, man. More room to make her big mistakes and to find her place in the clouds. But look at her life and you'd know that she'd had a foundation of stone that kept her grounded. 

Yep.

So those are the lyrics I'm reflecting on today. Listening to this again reminded me of how much I loved this song. And the Dixie Chicks--particularly that era. Their esprit de corps back then always made me want to run off and join a blue grass band. Particularly the fiddle parts.

What do you see when you read those words? What wide open spaces have you explored?  

Hearts on sleeves.

graffiti in Tel-Aviv, Israel, image from here.

Been walking my mind to an easy time, 

my back turned towards the sun.
Lord knows when the cold wind blows 

it'll turn your head around

 Well, there's hours of time on the telephone line 

to talk about things to come.
Sweet dreams and flying machines 

in pieces on the ground

~ from James Taylor's Fire and Rain

__________________________________________

One of Isaiah's good friends is moving away. And not just away as in across town or to another school but really, truly away. Far away. As in a different country away. Which, no matter how you slice it, seems more away than any other kind. 

I received a kind note from that friend's mother. Inviting Isaiah, along with a handful of others, to a going away gathering. And admittedly, this was the first I'd heard of this transition. Of course, it had been in the works for some time, though. When I called the friend's mom about it, she quietly told me some details about what was an exciting opportunity for their family. . .but that all of it had been hard. So hard that her child wasn't really talking about it much because that just made it all too real. "But please," she said, "I'd love it if Isaiah could join us. He's been a very special friend." And of course I accepted the invitation because her child was one of Isaiah's special ones, too. 

But there was a problem.  I was pretty sure that Isaiah wasn't aware of this. He couldn't have been because this is the kind of thing that would have come up on the way home from school or just before turning off the light before bedtime. 

And so. While Isaiah was eating a bowl of cereal the other day I casually mentioned it to him. Slipped it into mundane conversation about what things were yays or nays for his lunch box. And funny. I said it and then braced myself for what I knew would come next. 

And trust me. I knew what would come next.

This picture is so Isaiah.

Just look at this face.

That Isaiah? Lord have mercy. That boy is his mother's child if there ever was one. His heart is pinned right onto his sleeve and it beats hard with the kind of emotion that no one has to ever fight to discern. So, yes. First I braced myself and then let my feet walk over to him because I knew he'd need a hug. 

True to form, his eyes widened like saucers. He asked a few questions to clarify it all and then, like clockwork, he started fighting with all of his might to blink back the tears quickly filling his eyes. And just like when this happens to his mother, it was futile. 

"I'm so sorry, sweet boy. I know how you feel." And he wept straight into that bowl of Cocoa Puffs, slowly chewing and trying his best to swallow the emotion right along with the breakfast. 

Yesterday, I had a similar moment. I went to spend time with my friend David M. as he packed his last knick-knacks and taped boxes closed before his big move on Monday. I have wanted to write about him, talk about him but every time I do, it all gets too real. I understand how Isaiah's friend must have felt when choosing this as a coping mechanism. 

No. He's not moving out of the country. But he is moving all the way to Philadelphia which removes the spontaneity that has made our friendship so special. So yeah. I've tried my best to push it to the back corner of my mind and pretend that it wasn't so much a "good bye" but more of a "see you later." Even though deep down I know the real impact of these little shifts in life.

Yesterday I could no longer avoid it. There were boxes stacked all around that told me how real it was even if I didn't want to accept it. 

I sat on a bar stool drinking Trader Joe's two buck chuck and cracking jokes about how unhelpful I am as the friend-who-only-watches-but-doesn't-help-you-pack. And he laughed out loud with his normal hearty laughter saying that what he wanted from me was exactly what I was giving him at that very moment. 

So he packed and we talked. Every so often he'd pull out something really old and show it to me. Things like book reports from high school and term papers from college. Why he had these things I do not know. But he did and something about looking at his careful, looping cursive on three-hole punched notebook paper made me feel even closer to him. 

"Lord. Look at this one," he said while handing me a stapled stack of papers. The cover was bursting with juvenile creativity; the kind that wreaks of adolescence. 

"This screams 'before there were computers!" I chuckled at the stenciled title sheet and the Crayola marker-colored image on the front.

David leaned over and squinted at his handy work. "Uhhh, I'm thinking it screams, 'Hey everyone. I'm gay. Helloooo?'" He waved his hands and started laughing. He looked back down at another one of his little masterpieces and shook his head. "Lord. They should have looked at this one and known something was up. Waaaaay too creative to be straight." 

Other friends that I realize I'd come to know through David were also in and out and about the condo. Something about that made me feel even more melancholy. I recognized that I'd known them all through him. Bernard. Cordell. Some others, too. I'd seen each of their faces over the last decade because of our mutual love for David and I wondered how and if I would again now that he was moving away. That got me to blinking tears. Blinking fast and hard and trying to hide behind the surprisingly good shiraz that I was drinking from a plastic Solo cup. 

Bernard, David and Cordie

Cordell (David's former roommate) must have somehow sensed that I needed a smile because suddenly he yelled out to me from the bedroom. "Lawd! Kim! You have to see this!" Before I could even scramble off of my seat, he was already fanning out all of these old pictures of a young David on the counter in front of me.  

"OM-EFF-G, Cordie!" I was already squealing and clapping at the sight of them.

I stared at his chiseled face and examined his steely gaze. "Dayum, David!" I fanned my face and laughed out loud. That was just enough to break up my emotion. I was glad for that. 

Next, David handed me a picture of him from some kind of prom or dance. Him and this beautiful cocoa-complexioned girl wearing the kind of extremely unfortunate asymmetric haircut every it-girl of the time had.

I looked at the picture and curled my lips. "Mmm mmm mmm. Po' thang. How was she to know that she wasn't your type?" 

"Bless her heart!" David added. And that made every one of us laugh hard enough to fill that entire room with a lightness that was very much welcomed. 

I looked across the room at David and he looked back at me and smiled. I thought about the day we met and the twelve years that we'd worked together at Grady. Kindred spirits from the start--unapologetic for who we were and learning together that being that way welcomes the same for others. Him, the same-gender loving brother from New York with the mannerisms and bravado that confused straight people so much that it had become one of our favorite jokes. And me, the black woman from L.A. that openly talks about things like going to the hair salon, ashy skin and hip hop music in front of any and everybody. 

I remembered the heart-to-heart conversations. The day I burst into his office to tell him that I'd met who I thought was my husband. Him dancing and celebrating with us at our wedding. Harry shaking David's boyfriend's hand when David brought him by the house one evening--and Harry not looking the least bit uncomfortable afterward. Me walking off and leaving them all chatting like it was no big deal. Because it wasn't. Me and David giggling and calling Dave "the straight man whisperer" for how far he brought Harry in his acceptance of different lifestyles. 

I reflected on our professional accomplishments. Him getting his first NIH R01 grant and me winning my first teaching award. Both of us feeling a different kind of happy for one another because on some hard to explain level we knew that how far we'd both come was a big deal. We knew that we were standing on the shoulders of giants. Now I know that, on many days, we were each other's giants.

The two buck chuck was about to start making me feel giddy and I could feel it getting late. I knew that I could no longer avoid it--it was time to say good-bye for real. And I reached right over and grabbed a stack of napkins. That gesture was identical to me bracing myself for Isaiah's emotion because, like his, I knew it was coming. 

My friend David got up from the couch because he knows me well enough to have braced himself, too. 

And so. I said good-bye. Then I wept right into his shoulder. I wept and wept telling him how much I'd miss seeing him and having lunches and dinners with him on a whim. I told him I was sad that our wonder twin powers would no longer be able to activate at Grady Hospital because I always believed that something about us being there at the same time was more powerful than us being their separately. 

And then I just took a few moments and cried without saying anything else.

Some of David's friends came and hugged me, too. And I appreciated that because I would miss those guys right along with David. 

After all of that, I patted my raccoon eyes with a napkin and took a deep breath. "Okay. Let me get back cute, y'all." And that made us all laugh all over again which we needed. So it was good.

 

Yes. Isaiah and I are emotional types. We love hard and think a lot. We're missing the "restraint gene" when it comes to crying about people and moments and life's seismic shifts. . . . and that's okay. In fact, I think it's more than okay. I told Isaiah that the world needs people who express a lot of emotion like we do. And it also needs people like his daddy (who allegedly cries only on the inside) because they help balance things out. And he got that. 

Something reminded Isaiah of his friend again this morning. I could tell because his face went long and he was just sitting there looking pensive. Even though I knew what was going on, I went ahead and asked him if he was okay.

"I'm really, really going to miss my friend."  The right side of his mouth kept making this tiny quiver. The kind it always makes when he's trying to fight against his mother's genetics.

I grabbed the top of his head and pulled him into my chest. I hugged him tight felt a wave of emotion from the night before washing over me. Next, I pulled back, looked at his face, and tried to smile. I could feel my mouth quivering, too. 

"I know just how you feel," I whispered.

Isaiah reached out his hand and swept the tear from my cheek. Because he got that, too.

***

Happy Saturday.

Now playing. . . Something about James Taylor's voice singing this song has had my mental iPod stuck on it all day. Isaiah and I listened to this song together tonight and it paradoxically made us happy. Maybe because I told him that it was it was one of my favorite songs of all time. (But also maybe because J.T. is freakin' awesome and the kid knows good music when he hears it.)

Top Ten: I came to dance, dance, dance. . . . .

on Wednesday with Lisa K.

I came to dance, dance, dance, dance

I hit the floor

'Cause that's my plans, plans, plans, plans

I'm wearing all my favorite brands, brands, brands, brands

Give me some space for both my hands, hands, hands, hands

Yeah, yeah

'Cause it goes on and on and on

And it goes on and on and on, yeah

I throw my hands up in the air sometimes

Saying a-yo

Gotta let go

I wanna celebrate and live my life

Saying a-yo

Baby, let's go

~ from Taio Cruz' "Dynamite"

________________________________________________________

Man. It was quite a week. Some parts were eventful. Other parts less so. But overall I'd say my first full week as a forty two year-old woman wasn't too bad at all. The high points outweighed the annoying points, that's for sure.

Hey! I wrote a little top ten about it! Like to hear it? Here it go!

THE TOP TEN PARTS OF MY FIRST WEEK AS A BONA FIDE FORTY TWO YEAR-OLD GROWN ASS WOMAN

Leh-go!


#10  Refreshing!

Okay. So usually I don't go wandering up into Starbucks too often because I'm a little on the cheap thrifty side. But! When you have a birthday, people do things like sliding Starbucks gift cards into your birthday snail mail (Thanks, Crystal!)

And so. Armed with my free-to-be-frappachi(no) gift card, I rolled up into the Starbucks in Emory Village. The barista (why do we have to call them that?) asked me what I wanted and like always I got mad overwhelmed.

"Uhhhh, errrr, ummmm. Let's see."

"Something hot or cold?"

"Errrr, yeah. Okay. Cold."

"Caffeinated or not?"

"Neutral."

"Milk based or not?"

"You definitely don't want me to have any milk, bruh."

"Have you tried the refreshers?"

"The who?"

"The refreshers. Cool Lime is my favorite. And it's low calorie and no added sugar."

"No milk?"

"No, ma'am."

"Bet."

"Huh?"

"Oh sorry. That's slang for 'let's do this.'"

"Pardon?"

"I'll have the Cool Lime Refresher. Dang."

"Tall, Grande or Venti? Or Treinta?"

"Surprise me."

"How's a Grande?"

"Bet."

Wait. What's the point of sharing all of this? None whatsoever. I just want y'all to know that the Cool Lime Refresher is like a citrus party on your taste buds. Kind of like a guilt-free collision between a mojito and some lime juice without the rum.

Yum. And to think I have nearly twenty more dollars on my card. WOOT! WOOT!

#9  Do it for the story, man.

Okay. You know of my obsession with flash mobs. Clearly I have been waiting for the big moment to arrive where I got to either witness one or -- GAAAHH!!! -- be in one. And y'all! That big opportunity finally presented itself. YES!

Aren't you just SOOOO excited at the idea of me getting to be in a flashmob? I know you are!

Well. My friend Lisa K. teaches my step class and Body Pump classes at the Y--but she also happens to be the coordinator of wellness at an assisted living community. She's been working on a project about active aging and wanted to put on a flash mob with people of all ages. And so she started planning and, of course, called her flash mob obsessed friend to join in the fun.

And so. We learn the moves. We wear the requested colors. And we arrive in downtown Decatur at the appointed time. That appointed time was twelve noon on Wednesday and it turns out that there are a whooooole lot of folks that are actively aging in the Decatur area.

Like a whoooole lot.

So check it. You know how in a flash mob one person just randomly starts dancing and then others surprisingly join in -- astounding everyone with their knowledge of the choreography? Well. It turns out that the senior flash mob works a bit differently. And by differently I mean that at noon everyone got in their places and stood there with frozen jazz hands waiting for the music to come on. Like for at least two full minutes.

And me?  I'm all like, "HEY! You're supposed to just inconspicuously walk by and then break out with the moves! Stop with the jazz hands. Look normal!"

And the man I told was all like, "Vaaaaat?"

"Normal!"

"VAAATTTT?"

So I tried to explain again and he just kept saying the same thing until the music came on signaling that it was time for him to get his groove on. So all the jazz hands started moving in very slow, happy unison and as soon as we did, I was immediately super glad that I was there. Hell, even if we didn't surprise anybody with our sneak-attack choreography we were at least a mob. Even if we weren't a flashy one.

My favorite part was the seventy-seven year old woman next to me who was shouting out all the moves along with a constant eight-count. And she was mad loud, too, kind of like the lady on Dance Moms.

"Shuffle-one, two, three, down-four, five, six, shimmy-on-the-eight!"

And if you are clapping your hands and saying, "That's AWESOME!" while cracking up laughing. . . . know that it was twenty times more blogworthy than it even seems here.

Seriously, though? It was really fun. Talk about doing something for the story.

P.S. I'm still looking for a big ol' complicated flash mob to be in. If you get any ideas, holla at your girl.

#8 Salon on a Sunday!

Okay, so no. I didn't really get my hair done on a Sunday. But! The salon girls took me to a casual breakfast on Sunday. My awesome stylist Sakinah bought me a delicious mimosa and we all sat and yucked it up just like in the salon. We talked junk and discussed everything from politics to whether or not TJMaxx is more exhausting than Ross for Less. (Answer: Nothing is more exhausting than Ross.)

All we needed was a dude to walk in selling some peach cobbler and it would have been exactly like the beauty shop.

#7  Twenty years later!

We all met each other back in 1992 as first year medical students. Now, instead of young girls from Tennessee, California and Georgia, we're grown women with kids and doctorates. We reminisced on the crazy things we got into as med students and tried our best to get our minds around how we did anything social in the pre-cell phone era.

Those were the days!

#6  Good-byes SUCK!

I've been in denial about this. So much so that I haven't even uttered it aloud because it seems real when I do. My dear soul-friend David M. is leaving Grady to go work in Philadelphia. It's a great opportunity for him and I'm happy for him. But sad for me! Sad for me!

Yeah. So we had a going away dinner for him last week. It was cool. But I was sad. I still am.

#5 Cupcake Red Velvet!

I tried this for the first time because people kept telling me it was yum-tacular.

I concur!

#4  Drive-by Teaching

I snapped this picture today of one of our former residents doing some teaching and consulting on a complex EKG. Sonny--the one reading the electrocardiogram--is someone that I've known since his first day of internship. Seeing him now as a Cardiology fellow advising my colleague Schuyler and teaching all of us something that we didn't know warmed my heart. I love being in this kind of environment.

#3  These pictures are just cute.

I usually don't think they look alike. But here? Dang. They really do.

#2  Tuskegee Girls.

On Saturday, I spent some time with my sorority sisters. Sonya, who pledged with all of us, turned forty and had a big ol' party. Of course it was fun. It's always fun when we all get together.

#1 Look out Peyton and Eli. There's a new Manning in town.

Before anyone asks--yes, I am okay with my child playing football. Let's just stop there with that line of questioning and any worry-wart commentary that may or may not be tickling the tip of your tongue.

It took everything in me not to tackle him to the ground with smooches.

Okay. Where were we? Oh. Football! Yes! Can I please tell you how fun it is to be a football mama? Oh my GOSH. It's on a whole 'nother level! The energy is SO amazing, y'all.

Seeing him come in from practice all hungry and sweaty makes my heart ache. Something in my mind just fast forwards to him being a high schooler sitting at my same table.

Harry's a coach--and he really gets into the spirit. Peep those socks! Lawd.

And what's also SUPER awesome about all of this? Isaiah. He flat out expressed no interest in playing football but was fully supportive of his brother's desire to do so. (Isaiah says that he's "a fan of the feet and not of the hands" so has chosen to stick with soccer.)

Future David Beckham and Cam Newton

Look how laid back and genuinely encouraging he looks here. I just love that about both of them. They have their own interests. They are developing their own self images and marching to their own drums. Zachary announced that he wanted to play football this year. And since we love team sports for kids and grew up on them, we found a well organized league for him to join.

Y'all! He's fast, too!

And that Isaiah is playing soccer and also asked to join the Chess team. Which he sure did join. (Despite the fact that NO ONE in our house other than him knows the first thing about how to play chess.) Zachary made it very clear that he preferred anything other than the Chess club but he, too, listens and encourages Isaiah when he shares all the details.

Yep.

I just love this phase of life with my kids. I'm enjoying watching them discover who they are and what they love. I love seeing them try at things and hearing them discussing it when they're supposed to be fast asleep. These are special times.

Whelp! Gotta go to bed so that I can rest my vocal chords. Lots of hollering goes on at those games. And just a wee bit of trash-talking!

***
Happy Almost-Saturday. And may the Flash-Mob be with you.

And now playing. . .Zachary's favorite, favorite song.