There's something funny about memories. We spend so much time trying to create the perfect ones that sometimes we forget we're making them in the middle of absolute chaos. And if you've ever tried to get two grown adults into Halloween costumes, you know exactly what kind of chaos I'm talking about. This past weekend was one of those weekends that reminded me why the little moments matter so much.
Friday night, Dave and I headed into Boston for a date night, wandering through Beacon Hill and taking in the Halloween decorations. There's something magical about those historic streets, especially when they're dressed up for the season. It wasn't about having some elaborate evening planned. It was about being together, enjoying the atmosphere, taking pictures, and adding another little adventure to our twenty-six years of marriage. Then came Saturday. We were celebrating a friend's birthday at a Halloween costume party, which meant trading our usual attire for something a little more dramatic. I became the Snow Queen, complete with enough white and silver sparkle to make a disco ball jealous.
And Dave?
Jack Frost.
Because apparently, after twenty-six years of marriage, we've reached the stage where dressing like characters from a winter wonderland seems like a perfectly reasonable Saturday night. And you know what? It was. Two nights. Two completely different experiences. One weekend filled with the kind of moments that
eventually become the stories we tell. And somewhere between the Boston streets, the costumes, the photographs, and the laughter, I found myself thinking about something much bigger.
The memories we treasure most aren't always the ones we planned.
Sometimes they're the moments happening while we're busy worrying about everything else. I think about my childhood and the memories that have stayed with me.
Not necessarily the expensive gifts or elaborate celebrations, but the ordinary moments. Dancing with my dad in the living room. The sound of laughter. The feeling of belonging somewhere without ever having to question it. At the time, I wasn't thinking about preserving those moments. I was simply living them. And isn't that the beautiful, heartbreaking thing about growing older?
We eventually realize that the ordinary moments were never ordinary at all. They were the good stuff. The stuff we wish we could bottle up, put on a shelf, and open whenever life feels a little too heavy. As a mother, I think about this even more. There were so many years when I was focused on making everything special. Birthdays, holidays, vacations, performances. I wanted to give my daughter memories she would carry forever. And while I hope she remembers some of those carefully planned moments, I wonder how many of her favorites are things I barely noticed. A silly conversation in the car. Laughing so hard we couldn't finish a sentence. A spontaneous adventure. Or one of those completely ridiculous family moments that somehow becomes a story told at every
gathering for the next twenty years. You know the ones. The stories where everyone remembers a slightly different version, but somehow you're always the
one who looks the most ridiculous. Funny how that works. And then there's marriage. Twenty-six years of sharing a life with someone means we've collected quite a few stories.
Some romantic. Some ridiculous. And some that probably shouldn't be repeated in polite company. But when I think about our life together, it's rarely the grand gestures that come to mind first. It's the laughter. It's the little traditions that nobody else would understand. It's the way we can turn an ordinary evening into an adventure without needing much more than each other. It's dancing together at home, even when there's no particular reason to dance. Especially then. Because somewhere along the way, I've learned that a beautiful life isn't necessarily made up of extraordinary events. It's made up of ordinary moments we choose to be present for. And I think that's something we forget in a world where we're constantly encouraged to document everything.
Take the picture.
Record the video.
Share the memory.
And believe me, I'm all for photographs. I'm a photographer, for goodness' sake. My camera roll could probably qualify for its own zip code. But there's a difference between capturing a moment and actually experiencing it. Sometimes we become so focused on remembering the experience that we forget to enjoy it while it's
happening. And I don't want to do that anymore. I want to laugh until my stomach hurts. I want spontaneous date nights and ridiculous costumes. I want ordinary Tuesdays that somehow become extraordinary simply because of the people sharing them.
I want the photographs, absolutely. But more than anything, I want the feeling that lives behind them. Because someday, when we look back, we probably won't remember whether everything went according to plan. We won't remember if the house was perfectly clean, if dinner was impressive, or whether our hair
cooperated. We'll remember how we felt.
Who made us laugh.
Who held our hand.
Who showed up.
Who made an ordinary day feel like something worth remembering. And maybe that's the real secret to making memories. Stop trying so hard to make them perfect, and give yourself permission to actually live them. So here's to the spontaneous adventures, the messy kitchens, the ridiculous costumes, the inside jokes, and the moments that don't seem particularly important until years later. Here's to the people who make our lives feel full. And here's to the memories we didn't even realize we were making. Because one day, those ordinary little moments might just become the stories we treasure most. And if you're lucky enough to have someone willing to dress up as Jack Frost while you sparkle your way through Halloween? Well, honey, I'd say you're doing something right.
A little laughter, a little wisdom, and a whole lot of Fab!
XOXO, Fab