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My grandpa loved Brach’s red and white peppermint candies. Those little pinwheels remind me of him each time I see them, even on days when he’s the furthest thing from my mind. I appreciate those moments, nods to memories and reminders of people I love, even though I don’t often pause and give them the attention they deserve. 

Abbey did a Dia de los Muertos project for Spanish class last weekend. Her drawing included the things that my dad appreciated and loved, and while I suggested a couple of things (airplanes!), she put together the majority of it on her own. Seeing her interpretation of the things he loved made me grateful, because I think she was spot on with her choices. 

I wonder sometimes what my kids remember about my dad (and Ryan’s dad). They were young when both men died, so much younger than I was when I lost my grandparents. 

Like anyone we lose, I wonder if their memories are their own or ones they’ve crafted from collective stories and family lore, talk of his favorite things and his never-ending care for the people he loved, manifested in doing much more than saying. We talk about him frequently, but I know each of the people who loved him experienced a different version of him, because no two relationships can ever be exactly the same. 

I miss him at obvious times – like holidays or when I need help with a project around the house – but the times that hit the hardest are the unexpected twangs of memory. A Jeopardy clue about Cheers produced a lump in my throat the other day, and I could see him in his LaZBoy, eating Taco Bell and relaxing after a long afternoon shift at work. 

Sometimes I think those small moments offer clues to my favorite parts of him, the parts I didn’t always think of as cherished until they became part of my past and not my present. 

He must be on my mind more lately, because I truly thought I sat down to write about my grandfather’s mints and how certain flavors invoke the people we love. I don’t mind, though, that my words went in a different direction, looping around to my dad and the way we could sit in a comfortable cocoon of silence, watching Seinfeld or Cheers while the rest of the house slept. 

I hope the kids continue to remember him, even if our memories help them along. I hope his love offers them some quiet protection against any darkness they may face. 

I can remember my brother playing Metroid on his Nintendo when we were kids. A few Christmases ago, I bought Ryan a little Nintendo system that plays several old school games. He hasn’t played it in a while, but Dylan pulled it out today. (Full disclosure: He recently asked if he could purchase Metroid for his Switch, and I haven’t decided yet, so I guess it’s been on his mind.) (Second disclosure: He’s now playing Punch Out! I remember my brother playing this, too.)

Obviously, Dylan doesn’t feel the nostalgia I do when he immerses himself in old-school video games. For me, the familiar lulls me into a place of comfort.

Temperatures dropped this week, which means I’m wearing scarves in the house and complaining about how early darkness falls. It’s tough to relax when you’re cold, to participate in productive activities when you’re wrapped in a blanket.

I’ll get used to the weather eventually; I won’t be cold until April, even though it’s something I say every year at this time. Until then, I’m trying to find comfort where I can, and that means immersing myself into the familiar.

I should be editing and formatting my Christmas story for release later this month. Instead I’m here, where I write and post without worrying too much about plot holes. After all, there’s another chance to post tomorrow. I should be training for a 10K. Instead, I’m struggling to get 10K steps a day. I should be eating foods I know help me feel energized and strong. Instead, I’m going back and forth between Halloween candy and cheese and crackers. (Those things do not maximize my energy or my ability to button my jeans comfortably.)

I know it’s not necessarily healthy to worship at the altar of productivity. Downtime matters, too, and growth happens in those pauses. Still, wallowing in immediate comfort sometimes makes me feel worse in the long run, so I’m going to do my best to shift a few of those comfort responses to areas that feel a little more like a stretch — maybe I’ll sacrifice the cheese to start.

I came downstairs this morning to find my kids embracing the November-means-Christmas philosophy. Curled on the couch, both wrapped in blankets, they were more than halfway through Home Alone 2. 

I hadn’t even poured my first cup of coffee. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love Home Alone movies, but I’m not mentally prepared for Christmas joy at this point. Truthfully, I was planning to pilfer a KitKat for breakfast, not listen to a well-crafted argument about why the second movie beats the first, mainly based on how badly one of my kids wants to go to New York City.

(Spoiler: I still cried when Mrs. McCallister realizes she’ll be able to find Kevin at the tree in Rockerfeller Center.)

I thought I’d use my day to hunker down and do some writing. As usual, time galloped away from me, wearing the cloak of workouts and orthodontist appointments, local elections, and driving duties. If I want writing to happen, I need to be more deliberate about when and how much I need to do each day. These moments help; they prime the pump for the drafting I need to do. 

I’ll edit later. 

Time warps in funny ways when you expect to have a little more of it than normal. A bit of extra sleep. Meditation in the middle of the day instead of at bedtime. Unloading groceries in a methodical way instead of rushing to get them into cupboards and the refrigerator as quickly as possible. Like everyone I know, those extra hours never become fully realized, and I’m left looking at my planner and wondering how there’s so much left undone at the end of the day. 

I want to find those hours during the next two months – or at least find a few extra minutes to enjoy unplanned moments, like crying over Richard Gilmore’s funeral with Abbey or encouraging Dylan to turn off his video games for a few minutes to join me for a brief meditation. Those little moments, stacked together, can combat the busy nature of the holiday season.

At least I hope they can.

This morning I half-heartedly looked for a quote for our white board. I change it every week, and make note of them in my planner. Sometimes they’re old favorites, and other times something strikes me and gets written without much contemplation at all.

Today, I mostly felt tired.

Halloween falling on a Sunday has advantages, but I didn’t feel them this morning — and neither did the kids. Gloom settled around us, and it felt like a day that even the cat needed a little extra time snuggled into a blanket. We moved slowly this morning, but we moved, making it to school and work, knowing we only had to make it through a day before the respite offered by an Election Day off for the three of us. (Sorry, Ryan.)

Like every optimist, I savor beginnings. New years and birthdays, seasons and academic starts. Even Mondays have their own kind of magic. November 1 offers that same sort of promise to begin — again — with a clean slate and thirty days with which to do something lovely.

Like I said, I’m mostly tired. But a sliver of promised glimmered brightly enough that I wrote at least a little bit, enough so I may be able to say, later this month, “I’ve written every day in November, and I can’t stop now.”

This week’s quote, by the way, comes from Taylor Swift: “If they don’t like you for being yourself, be yourself even more.”

This November, I’ll do my best to follow that advice.