Dear November

Dear November,

Holy hell, how are you here already? I feel like I just wrapped up my summer blog and we’re already midway through mofo decorative gourd season! No offense, but you’re kind of a creeper. One minute I’m trying to get George to wear his Darth Vader mask while trick or treating because otherwise he’s just a boy in a black jumpsuit with a velcro belt with fake buttons on it and the next, here you are. Bam, it’s November. Now, all of a sudden, there’s Christmas music in the stores, people are asking about shoveling tips, and my sister-in-law has already told me what she got the kids for Christmas, and meanwhile, I just found my summer dresses in the attic which I never took out for the summer. That’s how on the ball I am, November. People are instagramming about Sweater Season and I’m still taking my leather sandals out of Rosie’s crate where she stockpiles them like some kind of serial killer with mementos of her victims.

Maybe it’s not you, November, but rather my unpreparedness for you and your pal December. I’m not ready for turning the clocks back, Thanksgiving, Friendsgiving, holiday card pre-production/production/envelope addressing, tree-trimming, snowstorms, snow days, oh God snow days, letters to Santa, reconciling real life with letters to Santa (“No, you can’t just ask Santa for a ‘real light saber’ and nothing else.”), Christmas shopping, actual Christmas, Christmas dinner with my family where I try to cook something that will please two foodies, two self-professed “plain food eaters”, and my children who only like boxed mac & cheese and made-from-scratch mac & cheese respectively, more snow days, shoveling, dressing the kids for sledding/whining, or red wine season.  Okay, the last one was definitely a lie. Ask me about my patented Wine Transition Program. (The secret is I use rosé to smooth the transition between white and red, red and white. You’re welcome.)

These things take time. Time I don’t have.

To me, November signifies the beginning of the end of the year, kind of like Sunday marks the end of the weekend. And just like on Sunday, when I haven’t put away the laundry, figured out my schedule for the week, or gone grocery shopping, I don’t think I’m ready for your (cranberry) jelly, November.

Natasha