Yesterday I was talking to my mom about how quickly August flew by and she marveled that September was already upon us and how that means “it’s basically Christmas.” I know why she said this. In our family, August is the beginning of what we like to call “birthday season.” It starts gently with my mom’s birthday, my parents’ anniversary, mine and Robert’s anniversary, and Brother #1’s birthday (Robert recently called me out on saying “my brother” whenever I tell a story about one of my brothers, which shouldn’t be a big deal except there are three of them, and he never knows which one I’m talking about, so for blog purposes they will be Brothers # 1, 2, and 3). By labor day, we are full steam ahead to the holidays. Brother #3’s birthday in September, Robert’s birthday in October, Only Sister’s birthday also in October, Dad’s birthday in November, and Brother #2’s birthday in December. There are so many celebrations I feel like I’m forgetting some of the recent additions. Oh yes. Nephew #1’s birthday in August. Brother #1’s anniversary in September. All of the holidays that come already printed on the calendar. Plus I married a man that celebrates the beginning of a sports season like it’s a holiday. College football (two days ago)! College and professional basketball (not yet, but soon)!

Brothers #2 and 3

Only Sister

Brother #1

Did I ever tell you that I didn’t realize Robert even cared about sports until we’d been dating for literally years? Okay, maybe like a year and a half. All I know is one day we were picnicking on a grassy knoll near the U of A campus reading Jack Kerouac out loud to each other and the next we were hanging around outside the 7/11 by the stadium desperate for scalped tickets in our price range to the U of A/ASU rival game that we ended up losing and to this very day Robert’s mood darkens when I bring it up, as it does when he realizes that Brother #1 and Only Sister ended up graduating from the Rival School, and Brother #2 is a sophomore there now. It’s fine. I’m over it. I’ve realized that sports, much like beer, are a social lubricant, and that I can use this to my advantage as a professional in the Midwest. Also, Robert makes really good snacks on game day, and I’m weirdly attracted to Joakim Noah and his wild, blogger-esque top knot and stoner grin.

Big House

If I were a normal blogger this would be a post about leaves! and scarves! and boots! and pumpkin spice lattes!, but I’m not, so you get a lineup of my siblings birthdays and a passive aggressive rant about my husband’s fandom. If I were a less lazy blogger, I would verify that I didn’t make the same bitter jab at other bloggers last fall, or the fall before that, but I’m not, so you get it twice. I really do love falling leaves and scarves and boots, though. I even love college football now, because it reminds me of college, which still makes me ache with nostalgia.

Lumpy Pumpkins

I go back to work this month. Before that happens, Robert and Dylan and I are taking a road trip to St. Louis, and then Dylan and I are flying to Arizona for a few days, and we have plans to go to the zoo one more time and to a Northwestern game and to finish up the latest trashy teen TV series we are working our way through, and I will take two dozen more walks with Dylan and even more walks with Arty and then I will be back at work and it will be Christmas and Dylan will be four, five, sixteen, and we will bury Arty or spread his ashes and I will cry cry cry because love is pain, and Dylan will drive across the country with people we aren’t sure we approve of, and Robert and I will be retirees with season tickets for the football team in whatever college town we settle down in, and we will revisit Jack Kerouac, but not that often because it makes us burn with the embarrassment of youth and long for days gone by, or days that never were, and did you know that Jack Kerouac went to college on a football scholarship? But right now it’s September, so I’m going to wrap a premature scarf around my neck and dump pumpkin spice in my morning tea.

On the Road

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