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I am at a crossroads. The road behind me has been long. Sometimes smooth, but those parts are only made clear by the rough patches they contrast with. Unfortunately for me, real degrees cannot be earned in the School of Life. The people who sign and distribute paychecks do not care that the real lessons in your life have been learned the hard way – or that the tuition you paid for that education wasn’t from grants or students loans…but rather from blood, sweat, and tears. Lots of them.

I’ve been at a crossroads before in my life. We left our college educations, not knowing how important they were – or how much we’d regret not having them – or how much suffering financially we would do without them, and we began to travel down a road that clearly seemed the right one for us. I guess it’s true what they say: “Sometimes the right road is the hardest one to take” and ours was both right and hard. Very hard. There have been times recently when I thought I held regret for choosing to take on Tony’s seven siblings, times when the outcome has so violently choked me into believing that our efforts weren’t worth it, and then I’m reminded…the story hasn’t ended. It’s not over. The ending may still be a happy one, yes, the ending will be a happy one.

I know what it means to be on welfare, trying to stretch food stamps to feed a literal army of children.

I know what it means to try and make a trip to the Goodwill or Value Village feel like a treasure hunt to the kids trying to find back to school clothes there.

I know what it means to desperately put our story out there at Christmas time, hoping someone (anyone?) would “adopt” all of our children for the holidays, hoping there would be at least a few gifts for each of them under our donated tree.

I know what it means to hope they don’t know the difference between Nike and Pro-Wings, between laces and velcro, between brand new and second (or third, or fourth) hand belongings.

I know what it means to make them believe that we had “snacky” dinners for fun, like an adventure, and not because peanut butter and jelly on Saltine crackers was all we had to give them.

I know what it means to fill out free lunch forms year after year after year, and hope that they would cover the “cool” food line.

I know what it means to learn how to do hair, hair unlike my own, how to fade it, and edge it, and perm it, and braid it, and twist it, and press it, and even an up-do for prom…because there was no way we could afford to give them all the “real” barber/beauty shop experience.

I know what it means to stretch my imagination, combine it with bedsheets and permanent markers, and create Halloween costumes out of everyday household items…and hope they felt proud of what they wore to go trick-or-treating.

I know what it means to let go of my pride and accept the gifts and donations that continually poured in, mostly from my family, so that we could continue taking care of Tony’s siblings.

I learned a lot about a lot. Including, but not limited to, developmental delays, mental health issues, emotional healing, bonding, love, sacrifice, cooking, baking, cleaning, teaching, mentoring, counseling, budgeting, laughing, crying, nursing, caring, parenting, nurturing, supporting, diversity, and stretching that almighty dollar…but still, a PhD in Life is rarely recognized when it comes to the world outside your own home. So here I am, nearly two decades later, still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

I have to go back to school, I want to go back to school, to finished what I started before I was a mother…so that I can be a better mother now. Our own five kids are all still at home with us, the youngest just two years old…the oldest a junior in high school. I never in a million years thought I’d be in college at the same time my children were, but now that’s a big possibility. That is, if I’m brave enough to balance school with all the directions I’m already being pulled in.

I am brave enough.

Yes, I am.

Pray for me.