Friday night, we ate an animal cell.
As one does.
David's pumpkin-pie science project successfully survived the trip to school, survived the school day, and made it home with enough of it remaining that we could actually try the thing.
I can now report that pumpkin pie and candy is an interesting combination.
Not necessarily a good combination.
Interesting.
There is something particularly confusing about eating pumpkin pie and suddenly encountering sour candy.
Your mouth has expectations.
Those expectations are violated.
But David's project had been a success.
He was happy.
We ate the evidence.
And that was enough.
Friday night was game night with friends.
Nothing particularly dramatic.
Nothing particularly profound.
Just the end of a long week and a chance to sit down, play some games, laugh, and finally stop moving for a little while.
Then Saturday morning arrived.
And apparently all six of us had been holding ourselves together with duct tape until the weekend.
Because we were tired.
Not sleepy.
Tired.
The kind where nobody particularly wants to go anywhere or accomplish anything.
The kind where even the things you normally enjoy start feeling suspiciously like obligations.
Fortunately, we'd already made one very good decision.
No lesson.
I'd spent part of the week planning an elaborate Halloween lesson for the kids.
History.
All Hallows' Eve.
All Saints' Day.
Food.
Stew.
Bread.
A fire.
The whole thing.
And then I decided we weren't doing it.
Saturday confirmed that was absolutely the right call.
The kids slept a little later.
We moved slowly.
I took them out for breakfast.
Nobody had to learn anything from Dad.
Nobody had to participate in an elaborate family experience.
We just existed for a while.
It was glorious.
There was still baseball practice.
At least, there was supposed to be.
I kept reminding David about it.
We needed to get ready.
We needed to make sure his stuff was together.
We needed to watch the time.
Then his coach realized something.
It was Halloween.
And he canceled practice.
Even with the final game of the season scheduled for Sunday.
It was absolutely the right call.
Those kids have worked all fall.
The families have worked all fall.
And nobody needed to spend Halloween watching the clock because baseball practice was sitting in the middle of the day.
So suddenly?
We had nowhere we needed to be.
Which, naturally, meant we went somewhere anyway.
Back to the pumpkin patch.
This time there was no schedule hanging over us.
No baseball practice we needed to race toward.
No elaborate lesson waiting at home.
We just went.
We got more pictures of David because apparently documenting this kid's annual migration through pumpkin season requires multiple visits.
And then we loaded the truck.
With pumpkins.
A lot of pumpkins.
An entire truckload of pumpkins.
Because if we're going to cancel an elaborate Halloween lesson in the name of simplifying our lives, apparently the logical next step is to purchase enough pumpkins to establish a small agricultural reserve.
Makes sense.
But it was fun.
Nobody was watching the clock.
Nobody needed to hurry.
We came home with pictures, pumpkins, and nowhere else we needed to be.
That's exactly the kind of Saturday we needed.
I got a haircut.
We had dinner.
We watched The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad together.
The kids went to bed.
And later that night, I logged on to play games with friends.
My friends live in Atlantic Time, so they're normally an hour ahead of me.
Except for one magical hour each year.
Because apparently changing clocks doesn't happen everywhere at exactly the same moment.
For one hour, our clocks agreed.
We celebrated this remarkable achievement in international diplomacy.
Then Sunday arrived.
And Sunday started well.
Really well.
We made it to church.
No frantic disaster.
No missed service.
No family logistical collapse.
We just...
Went to church.
After the last few weeks, I will take that victory without qualification.
Asher and I did our little walk to get the mail.
Kati brought somewhere around four or five dozen extra eggs from our chickens, and every one of them found a home.
Then we headed back.
Because we had baseball.
One final game of the fall season.
Except sometime during church, I started noticing the messages in the team chat.
Something wasn't adding up.
Then it clicked.
Games.
Plural.
We had a doubleheader.
Apparently everybody knew this except us.
That changed the day considerably.
David needed to be there at 1:45.
First pitch was at 3:00.
The first game lasted until around 4:30.
The second started shortly after.
We didn't leave the field until nearly 7:00.
So what I thought was going to be one final fall baseball game became an entire afternoon and evening at the ballpark.
Everybody came.
We settled in.
And we played baseball.
A lot of baseball.
The first game was rough.
14-8.
Four innings.
They lost.
And honestly, it was a brutal game to watch.
It was one of those games where things just never really settled.
David spent some time in left field.
He got a few at-bats.
And while the boys played, I got something I hadn't really had much opportunity to do this season.
I talked to the coaches.
All of them.
I talked to every coach on that team.
I talked to the hitting coach.
I asked questions.
I listened.
And every one of them had good things to say about David.
Not that he's perfect.
He's not.
Not that there isn't work to do.
There is.
Plenty.
But they see something.
They see his passion.
They see his power.
They see what he can do.
And more than one of them essentially said the same thing:
They wish he would play in games the way he plays in practice.
Which is simultaneously encouraging and maddening.
Because apparently somewhere inside my kid is a baseball player who occasionally forgets to bring himself to the actual baseball game.
We'll work on that.
Then came game two.
And that one was different.
Really different.
Back and forth.
Competitive.
The kind of game where everybody stays engaged because nobody really knows how it's going to end.
Eventually?
8-8.
A tie.
And somewhere between a 14-8 loss and an 8-8 tie, another little milestone happened.
David played his first nine innings of baseball in a single day.
A full game's worth.
Not technically one game.
But nine innings.
For a kid who spent much of this rain-soaked fall season desperately wanting more baseball?
He finally got it.
All at once.
The rest of the family survived too.
Asher did great through the first game.
By the second, he started coming apart a little.
But honestly?
So would I.
It was late.
He was tired.
He was hungry.
He had already spent hours at a baseball field watching somebody else play.
There are limits to what should reasonably be expected from an eight-year-old.
Zoey found her own rhythm.
She watched.
She cheered for her brother.
She took notes.
She played with some of the other kids.
She made the afternoon her own.
And Jacob?
Well, Jacob has already decided he wants in.
He wants to play in the spring and summer league.
Which means one baseball player in this family may soon become two.
Meanwhile, David wants to try out for his school team in the spring.
I've already talked to his fall coaches about whether he could potentially do both.
Their answer?
Absolutely.
And if anybody gives us trouble making the schedules work, call them.
They'll help.
I appreciate that more than they probably know.
Because this fall wasn't really about building a winning baseball team.
It was about giving kids a place to play.
A place to learn.
A place to figure out whether they wanted more.
David wants more.
Apparently Jacob does too.
So I suppose I should start buying baseballs in bulk.
By the time we got home Sunday night, there wasn't much left in any of us.
Showers.
Pajamas.
Bed.
Collapse.
Done.
And just like that?
It was November.
And now it's Monday.
November 2nd.
Week Two of my bachelor's capstone.
I'm still waiting on grades from those first submissions, which means I'm still waiting to learn one of the most important things about any new class:
How does this professor grade?
I feel good about what I submitted.
Now I want to see what they think.
Somewhere in the back of my mind are the two classes waiting for me in January.
My leadership course.
My anthropology capstone.
They're there.
I'm aware of them.
But I'm trying not to live there yet.
Right now, it's Week Two.
One class.
One capstone.
One thing at a time.
Which feels appropriate.
Because apparently that's November's theme already.
There are two months left in 2026.
That's it.
Halloween is behind us.
Fall baseball is over.
David turns thirteen in less than two weeks.
Then Thanksgiving.
Then Christmas.
Then somehow another year is gone.
There are already countdowns everywhere I look.
But this morning, I don't really want to count down.
I want to sit here for a minute and look backward.
Because that was a pretty damn good fall.
It wasn't perfect.
Rain absolutely murdered the baseball schedule.
Practices disappeared.
Games disappeared.
There were rough at-bats.
There were strikeouts.
There were innings where things fell apart.
There were moments when David got frustrated.
Moments when Dad probably cared too much.
Moments when the whole family had to rearrange everything because one kid needed to be at a baseball field.
But we did it.
And he loved it.
He really loved it.
I watched him become more comfortable.
I watched him try positions he'd never played.
I watched him make contact.
I watched him struggle.
I watched him listen.
I watched him learn.
I watched him walk onto fields where he didn't know everyone and become part of a team.
And yesterday, I got to stand around talking to coaches who have watched him all season and hear them say they see something in him too.
That's a pretty good way to end a season.
Except, of course, it isn't really the end.
Because baseball season is over.
Which apparently means baseball preseason has begun.
There will be throwing.
Hitting.
Batting cages.
Conditioning.
Things around the yard.
Probably that gym membership David has subtly reminded me exists.
There is work to do before spring.
And he's ready to do it.
So am I.
Mostly.
Ask me again after the cardio.
For now, though?
It's Monday.
Another workweek is beginning.
School is beginning again.
My class is waiting.
The holidays are coming.
Life has already started moving toward whatever happens next.
But yesterday, for almost an entire afternoon, six of us sat around a baseball field.
We watched number 12 finish his first fall season.
One game didn't go the way he wanted.
The next ended without anybody winning.
And somehow, I drove home happy.
Maybe that's the thing I want to remember.
Not the scores.
Not the strikeouts.
Not even the hits.
The season.
The family in the stands.
The kid on the field.
The coaches who took time to teach him.
The siblings who spent their Sunday afternoon there.
The conversations along the fence.
The drive home.
All of it.
Because spring will come.
There will be another tryout.
Another league.
Maybe two boys playing next time.
There will be more games.
More practices.
More opportunities to get better.
But there will never be another first fall season.
That one belongs to 2026.
And it was a good one.
I've spent a lot of the last few weeks thinking about showing up. Showing up for your family, for your teammates, and even when you're tired, frustrated, or would rather be somewhere else. This weekend reminded me that showing up also sometimes means knowing when not to. We skipped the lesson. Coach canceled practice. Saturday was allowed to breathe. Then Sunday, when it mattered, all six of us were there. We spent most of the day at a baseball field and watched David close out his first fall season. Maybe that's part of finding the balance. Not everything needs to happen, and not every plan needs to survive. Sometimes you clear enough space that when the thing that matters arrives, you still have enough left to be there for it.
Much love.
Stay safe.
Wash your damn hands.
And I will see you, next time.
