My Pops used to say, "I won't go to the south side of my house!"  I am not sure what experiences he had with the South that fueled such a comment, but he meant it.  He broke that rule when he visited me twice in Charlotte, where I live and where I am raising my children.  I never - not once in my life thought I would be living south of the Mason-Dixon line.  And here I sit.  They say when you move  to the South you are going to fall in love with one of two things:  Jesus or NASCAR.  There is literally a church on every corner - not a Starbucks like in Chicago but a really big church with real southern preachers.  Praise Jesus.


When I first moved to Charlotte, I told people I was moving "out East".  Ha!  I came here kicking and screaming.  Seriously, I was so stressed I developed Shingles.  The closest I ever got to a Confederate flag was watching the Dukes of Hazard when I was a kid.  I like to think I am an educated, worldly woman but I was afraid of the South.  I had visited southern states, vacationing with friends and family over the years, but somehow, Florida didn't count towards my imaginary idea of the South.  Like when I used to say I wasn't drinking that night, while holding a glass of wine in my hand.  Somehow wine didn't count as drinking to me.  Wine is like the Florida of the South.


Charlotte, or the Queen City (named after Queen Charlotte, wife of King Edward III of England), is mostly made up of folks from New York, New Jersey and Ohio - or so it seems to me.  In my 6 years as a resident I think I have met 12 native Charlotteans.  Regardless, the Southern roots run deep and it took me a few years to get used to the Southern ways.
"Hey baby"  (not hitting on me, just saying hello)
"Hi sweetie" (not misogynistic, just saying hello)
"Have a blessed day honey" (not a missionary, just wishing me well)
It was like running into Flo from that sitcom Alice all day long.  I haven't  heard anyone say, "kiss my grits" but I have tried grits - no thank you.  I'm a hashbrowns girl.  Something else I noticed right away.  I am three sentences away from the following topics: Civil War, slavery and fried chicken.  Not always in that order.  Who knew Mr. Williamson's US history class would come in so handy while I wait for my deli ham to be sliced at the Publix (thin not shaved please).


I can't write about the South without mentioning the heat.  It's f*cking hot.  That's all I have to say about that.  Which leads me into my latest discovery - Sweet Tea.  I love me some sweet tea.  Just like in Europe when ordering water you have to specify still or sparkling.  In the South when ordering tea you have to specify sweet or unsweet.  Sweet - always sweet.  Because if you order unsweet and add sweetner - you may get asked to leave - the South.  It's like ordering a Chicago hot dog with ketchup.  Definitely frowned upon.


I am a Northerner living in the South.  But the longer I am here, the more intrigued I am.
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There is a sweet moment in the morning - in between sleep and awake - that although fleeting gives me hope for the day.  A moment in time when my life is not my concern.  A moment in time that is void of worry, remorse or regret.  A moment in time that is neutral, fair, impartial. And then...the rhetoric begins.


You ate the entire pint of ice cream last night, didn't you.
I hope your boss doesn't realize the huge mistake you made yesterday.
She didn't call you back because she doesn't want to be your friend anymore.
He is so out of your league.
You realize there isn't enough money to cover the bills this month.  
I wonder what you are going to wear today.  Nothing fits.


Like bullets in a machine gun - takka.takka.takka.takka.takka - these thoughts, statements, questions stream into my consciousness forcing me to dive for cover under my blankets. Within nanoseconds that sweet moment of peace is quickly replaced by worldly clamors. On the heels of the internal rhetoric, the dog scratches at the side of the bed begging for attention, the kids move about the house needing morning hugs, clean clothes, breakfast and homework papers signed.  The phone dings and buzzes and beeps reminding, alerting and encouraging me to move, move, move!


I imagine morning is bacon and eggs and homemade pancakes at the Johnson house.  Everyone has a Johnson family in their lives.  The family that arrives to school on time, everyday.  The children never have remnants of breakfast stuck to their cheeks and their clothes are wrinkle free because they were not picked out of the laundry basket.  Their mini-van is clean and their offer to watch your children sounds more condescending than helpful.  I bet morning at the Johnson house is delightful.


Morning at my house is...delightful too.  Delightfully, delightful.  Pretty uneventful except we run around like it's the end of the world.  I don't understand it.  Even when I set out the cereal bowls and make lunches the night before and plan outfits in advance.  Suddenly the morning hours arrive and the boys want to exert their independence by packing their own lunches - using every utensil in the kitchen or I forgot to turn on the dryer or it's Snack Mom day and I don't have 28 peanut free, tree-nut free, egg free, sugar free snacks to send to school.


With a busy head and a busy house and a busy day ahead of me I pause to try and recapture that blissful moment I enjoyed only an hour ago when everything was possible.  Because that is the truth.  Everything - even in the midst of morning chaos - is possible.