A close circle of friends and I have been at war with the month of October for several years now. After the 3rd death in the dreadful month, someone started referring to it as (f)october. I’m not much of a swear-er, but if the shoe fits…

A bit of history: my husband lost his sister on the 11th of the month – this year will mark 10 years without her. A few years later KLR’s mother lost a battle to cancer. I didn’t have the privilege of ever meeting these 2 people, but the simple hurt of the people I love is enough to make it matter. But then we lost Vanessa  on the 17th, and even though it followed a major surgery, it still came as a shock to us all. She may have had little feet to match her small stature, but those were big shoes to fill in many hearts. I miss her, even when it’s not October. 
Then a few years later I miscarried at 12 weeks. Welcome to the grief club. 
So, save my birthday, the month of October represents a very low point to many of us. I suppose it’s fitting, as most of the things around us seem to be dying during this season, living where we do. It’s better than, say, being sad at Christmas. Or the 4th of July. Who wants to cry to fireworks?  
I’ve tried to do battle with this month, determining myself to be cheery and joyful. But I must say that it’s not started on the right foot. The past week has been a heavy one for our family, and though it seems we’ve turned a curve, it’s a dimly lit path ahead. 
And then, the chocolate. In my War on October I planned to venture to Girls’ Night, a celebration of friends and chocolate. But alas, the school calendar is in on the conspiracy and husband has conferences this evening, of which he knew nothing prior. At least 18 different reasons keep me from taking the kids with me, so instead I’ll just need to be grateful that I’m not consuming the extra calories via chocolate. Even though it’s common knowledge that calories don’t count in months that begin with the letter O. I shouldn’t put cancelled social plans on par with the grief of families I love; but resembles a cheap shot from an opponent after you’ve already Cried Uncle. Just. Not. Fair. 
So, I have a few options: 1) Enjoy the beautiful sunny weather that can only be interpreted as a Peace Offering, a Booby Prize of sorts, and take my kids to the park and watch them frolic. Or B) mope around until bedtime, take a hot bath while reading a fantastic book club book and drown the sorrows in ice cream. Or wine. Or both.
Because the calories don’t count, remember?
Perhaps I’ll do a little of both. I can acknowledge the dread of the season while not giving it the satisfaction of knowing that it has me down for the count. I’ve got 27 more attempts at turning around my expectations. 
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