As we head into the holiday season, I’ve been thinking about family traditions. Growing up, my family didn’t have a lot of traditions, but the ones we did have were meaningful. As an adult reflecting back on my youth, my memories are largely organized around those traditions, and they help me feel more connected to my family.
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I have about two weeks left for this fall’s capsule wardrobe, and I’ve reached the point where I’m getting pretty tired of wearing the same few outfits over and over again. It’s nice not to have to put much thought into what I’m going to wear, but on the other hand, I’m a little bored. I’m craving more variety and missing some of the items I packed away. Now that the weather has gotten cold, I’m wishing I had more sweaters to choose from. I’ve also had to attend more trials than usual this fall, and wearing the same two suits week after week is getting old.
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This time of year makes me want to slow down. The shorter days and cooler temperatures prompt me to stay in bed as long as possible in the morning and lounge around the house at night, curling up with a good book or going to sleep early. My circadian rhythms mimic the daylight.
After a hectic October, November feels like a deep breath. The grass and weeds have stopped growing for a while, the evenings are dark, and the holiday season isn’t yet in full swing. My workload and other commitments have eased up a bit. Summer is over, winter is coming, and my instinct is to hibernate.
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There’s a scene in Season 3 of the CBC show Workin’ Moms where PR executive Kate’s lawyer husband Nathan agrees to shift his schedule to take care of their toddler son while Kate flies to another city to make a last-minute pitch to a client. The trade-off, Nathan tells Kate, is that she has to take care of the child’s costume for the preschool Halloween recital, which Nathan had previously agreed to handle. Discussing all this on the phone, Nathan says to Kate, “You’re not going to buy him one of those costumes-in-a-bag, are you?” To which Kate responds, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, “What kind of mother do you think I am?” She ends up trying to fashion a costume from a hotel pillowcase and toilet paper rolls in the wee morning hours before catching her flight back home. She arrives at the recital late and interrupts the event to run across the stage and place the ridiculous-looking costume over the head of her son, who is already sitting on the stage among his creatively costumed peers.
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You can read the earlier posts in this series here:
I was 27 when I first looked at a person who shared my DNA. On a gray day in late November, I opened the door of a diner and saw my then-12-year old niece, who gave a small smile and pointed to her mother standing at the counter. My sister.
It’s been nearly five months since I alluded to this post, and I’ve procrastinated on writing it. It’s a difficult one for me to write. This meeting happened almost eight years ago now, and I wish I had journaled about it at the time. My memories of my feelings have no doubt been affected by experiences in the intervening years and the soul-searching I’ve done since then. I’m also uncomfortable writing about other people, but I’ll do my best to recount things as honestly as I can.
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