I’m not really into ballet. It goes without saying neither is my husband. But when we found out my seven-year old niece was going to be in The Nutcracker, we figured we could suffer through to watch her onstage debut.

I became an aunt when I was eight, so the older I get, the more I understand what it means to be an aunt…and the more I feel like I need to play catch-up. Missing the show was definitely not an option. I told my sister two months ago we would be there. Then again, we were thinking it was a simple school play. A little dance show, if you will. We’ll go to the show, spend the weekend with my sister and the family, and it will be great.

But I was very wrong.

Only when we had tickets in hand did we know they cost forty dollars a piece. And that Madison was a snowflake among a group of about 12 or 15. And that she’d only be on stage for two minutes. And that of all the rows of snowflakes, she was in the very back corner.

It would have been easy to come up with an excuse not to go. When my niece isn’t standing right in front of me, with her cute red hair and her cute big blue eyes, it’s easy to come up with lots of excuses. We can’t afford it with Christmas coming up. We don’t want to make the drive. It’s such a tiny part; we’ll come when she gets a lead role.

But we decided to stay committed, paid for our tickets, and made the long trek up to South Bend after work Friday night, not pulling up to my sister’s driveway until 11 p.m. After writing my sister the $80 check for the tickets, I tried to get myself excited. It was Christmas, after all, and I had never seen The Nutcracker.

As we found our seats three rows from the front in the ornately decorated theater, I couldn’t help but notice how packed the place was. This was no mere school play. This was community theater. The ballet was at the Morris Theater downtown, an ornately decorated and old theater. Most were dressed up, out for a Christmas event with family and friends with plans to have a nice dinner afterwards.

And they were going to see my little niece dance like a snowflake in The Nutcracker.

I settled in to watch. The dancers were amazing. As I said, I am not a huge fan of ballet, but when you are sitting three rows from the front, you realize how incredibly strong you’d have to be to dance like that. I loved the music, and kept anticipating when the snowflakes would come out.

Finally they did. Though all the little girls were dressed alike, I could Madison out of a crowd of a million. Already tall and thin, she had her red hair pulled up into a tight bun, rosy cheeks, and a huge smile. She threw her arms in her moves, trying to be as graceful as possible, obviously loving being on the stage. She didn’t let anything distract her. She didn’t look to see what the other girls were doing. She didn’t look at her feet. She looked straight out into the audience, head held high, looking beautiful in her white leotard and skirt. Her thin arms swirled around her head as she twirled and dipped and bowed. I couldn’t help it; my throat got tight and tears welled up in my eyes. I was so proud of her. So confident at such a young age.

For a split second I could remember when my sister found out she was having a girl (I truly believe she would have kept trying until she had a girl). I remember when Madison got her baby pictures done on a pillow of feathers, and everyone remarked that she looked like a little cherubim. I remember her pudgy little toddler body with the curly red hair when she was three. I remember babysitting her and playing out in the yard when she was five.

Now I have something else to add to my list of memories. Now I have this precious moment I am sure I will remember for a long time. Long after Madison takes lead roles and graduates and gets married and has her own kids. I’ll remember being a proud aunt the day she danced in The Nutcracker. It was definitely worth the $80.

This Thanksgiving hasn’t been much different from any other. Same people (parents, brothers, sister and family); same place (my mom’s house); same menu (turkey, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, turkey, pie). We drink, we play cards, we snack, we eat tons for dinner and we talk. It’s been that way for some time. And it’s fabulous.

But one little thing changed this year. We decided to draw names for Christmas instead of everyone buying everyone a gift.

This might seem like a small thing, but I think we’ve been in denial for awhile that our family is growing. It’s been especially difficult the past two years to shop for two families, let alone two growing families. Cody has two brothers and one nephew. I have two brothers, one sister, two nephews and one niece. If you include parents and spouses, I’ve had 16 people to buy for. Gifts start becoming “how cheap can I get this gift” as opposed to “what would they really like?”

As we sat around after dinner, discussing how we would do this. (Would it be like a Secret Santa? What will the minimum spending amount be? Can people draw their own spouses? Is the 7-year-old included, and, if not, does everyone still buy her a gift?) This conversation literally lasted 30 minutes. We were going to keep it just between siblings, but my two nephews are getting older (18 and 13) and wanted to be included in the name-drawing, even though we warned them they’d only be getting one gift this year as opposed to lots. They decided that was OK, so Mom wrote all our names on paper and put them in a bowl. The rules: you have to keep it a secret, you can’t draw yourself or your spouse, and the minimum spending amount is $35. (I found it amusing we settled on a minimum and not a limit, but “sky’s the limit” seemed to suit everyone much better).

As the bowl was being passed around, I marveled at how big our family has grown, not even in numbers but in size. My oldest nephew is 18, almost as tall as my husband and with a voice just as deep. My second oldest nephew is TALLER THAN ME with a voice that got deeper since the last time I saw him two months ago. My 7-year-old niece is growing like a weed. Over the past few years, we’ve added my husband Cody and my oldest brother’s girlfriend Lesli. We even discussed adding a kid’s table next year as mom realized we literally couldn’t fit another person at the table, even though my sister’s kids are getting too old for a kids’ table and anyone that Cody and I might add won’t be old enough to sit at a table by themselves for another two or three years.

I can remember going to my grandma’s for holidays when I was younger. The cousins outnumbered the adults, and there was never a lack of someone to play with. But now the cousins have grown exponentially with spouses and children. I hardly ever get together with the extended family, but I feel like I am watching my immediate family grow just as big right before my eyes.

It’s exciting because there will come a day when my nephews will bring girlfriends, and someday fiances and wives. My niece will bring a boyfriend (but not till she’s at least 35, according to her dad), and Cody and I will, we hope, bring children.

I love it. I love that even though this holiday seems like the same old thing, it holds so many possibilities. In the future, we’ll be able to have more than just two Euchre games going at once. We’ll have to cook two turkeys, and have twice as many pies. We’ll have to sit at multiple tables, agree on which football game to watch and squeeze even more people into our group photos. We may have to plan a little more ahead and be a little more accommodating.

And we’ll definitely have to add more names to the Secret Santa name drawing.

I’ve never been super crafty. I can follow a paint-by-number, my mom taught me cross-stitching once, and I can even make something kind of cool out of Legos. But I’ve never had the patience to learn something worthwhile, like knitting or sewing or painting or pottery.

Every so often, however, I get the itch. This past weekend, a combination of the impending holidays and a charming craft show did me in.

Saturday afternoon, I stopped in at my in-laws’ church for a day-long craft show. I was planning on just dropping into my mother-in-law’s booth to sit for awhile and share some coffee. But as soon as I walked in the door I knew I was in trouble.

I saw hand-painted china, delicately and sweetly laid out with their matching sets. I saw (or smelled, rather) the best homemade candles. I marveled at some of the coolest woodcarving I had ever seen. I saw jars of homemade cake mixes, handmade fleece blankets, and knitted ski caps. There was an abundance of handmade jewelry, made with glass beads, clay, turquoise, stones and polished rocks of every color. There were innovative items too: tiny beads that, once placed in water, kept a live plant alive for a month before you had to water it again; two-sided quilts, so you can match both a fall-themed home decor and a Christmas one; even little bandanas that slip onto dog collars to match every season of the year.

While I don’t have much patience to learn a trade with my hands, I’ve always had the desire to learn. But I was overwhelmed, because I had no idea where to begin. There are so many options.

So I decided to start with the people in my life who have already made the leap.

Since Saturday, I have made arrangements with my mom to learn to make some jewelry, plans with my mother-in-law to learn how to sew blankets, and a phone call to my little brother to see if he might help me edit some photographs I’ve taken throughout the year to give as Christmas gifts. I have an offer from my friend Andrea, knitter-extraordinaire, to help me find some simple sewing patterns, and my friend Rachel has suggested a baking day.

As I look forward to these plans over the next few weeks, I am starting to notice gifts I have been given that took time and effort for the giver to make. I have a string of turquoise and red beads on a necklace from a college roommate. I have a set of picture frames filled with hilarious photos from a good friend. I have a fleece blanket, the pattern picked out and handmade by my mother. I have countless mix CD’s from my little brother. These gifts always remind me of the time and love they were made with.

But more than anything, I find myself getting more and more excited about these how-to sessions coming up for other reasons. Yes, I’ll learn how to do a couple things I didn’t know how to do before, which is useful. But I’ll be learning alongside people I love. We’ll make a pot of coffee, sit down over patterns and beads and pictures, and together we’ll figure out a way to make something beautiful from what’s in front of us. We’ll laugh and catch up and work together.

Whether I keep my creations or not doesn’t matter. And while they may have a little more value than a store-bought gift, they will have a long-lasting value for me. I will have the memories and enriched relationships with the people I love. And that’s what really matters.

This year was the first time since living at home with my parents that I have actually handed out candy to trick-or-treaters on Halloween.

In college, I lived in the dorms for two years, and not many parents were willing to send their kids into a building infested with young adults who were drinking and using Halloween as an excuse to wear very little clothing.

My junior year, I actually did transfer to a college closer to home and lived with my parents. But I also had a new boyfriend and going out with him on Halloween definitely took precedence over staying home with my parents watching a scary movie and having to get up every five minutes to answer the door and give bite-size Milky Ways to little Spidermen and princesses.

Senior year I was in my own apartment back in my old college town. Apartment buildings are not conducive to holidays like Halloween, so not much happened that year either.

The following Halloween I was four days away from my wedding. Handing out candy was the last thing on my mind.

Then last Halloween, my husband and I were in Florida celebrating our one-year anniversary.

So I was excited to have a normal Halloween this year, and I found it can be just as magical for adults as it is for kids. As I sat on the swinging bench on our front porch — fire pit keeping me warm and a cup of coffee in my hands — I watched large groups of kids, parents trailing behind them, wander up and down the street. They excitedly showed off their costumes, which was entertaining to watch. They whispered to each other as they came up our driveway, and they giggled and compared candy on their way back down. The moon was full, and the air was barely warm enough for a sweatshirt to keep me warm.

Every time a child came up to our house, I couldn’t help but grin from deep down inside, where I felt happy to be in this moment. No other day of the year allows anyone and everyone to drop by your house to say hello, and no other day of the year gives you permission to pass out ridiculous amounts of candy to make little kids happy. No other day of the year will you find all of your neighbors out for an evening stroll, laughing and talking loud, not worried who hears them and not worried about what time they got home.

Yes, it was fun to dress up as a kid and GET candy. I will always have special memories of going out with my brothers, laughing all the way from house to house, and having an hours-long bartering session in the living room, our candy strewn about in carefully-constructed piles.

But it’s also fun to be on the giving side of Halloween…to see all the costumes, the wide smiles as they find you have their favorite candy, to meet the parents (who are actually around your age now), and to watch it all from from afar.

In fact, I think I like this side better.

Editor’s note: for the next two weeks we’ll be running the best of our This Ordinary Day pieces. We’ve enjoyed working with so many great writers and wonderful people and felt it was high time to take a look back at some of what they’ve brought us. If you’d like to see more pieces, please take a trip over to our archives page — it’ll be well worth your time.

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I don’t <em>love</em> Celine Dion’s music. I don’t even really like it that much. While her lyrics are catchy and she has the kind of voice that melds with yours just enough to make you think you’re good, I sing along for reasons of my own.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, it takes me back to my college years in southern Indiana. It seemed like the only place I’d ever been where every season was charming and beautiful in its own right…silent, gorgeous winters; breezy, floral springs; sunny, dense summers; and a fresh, explosive autumn, which never ceased to remind me that God appreciates beauty in its most natural form.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, I go back to singing her songs at the top of my lungs with four other girls, the windows down, the hot, balmy air whipping our hair around, and our destination always paling in comparison to the actual trip. The stops and the detours were some of our best memories as we traveled to support each other, help each other and surprise each other. Their glowing, laughing faces bubbled with life and we quickly became family during our treacherous early 20-somethings. They were much more constant than they are now. But they no less flit in and out of my mind, their features as clear as if they were standing right in front of me. We were writers, runners, jokers, dancers, singers and anything else we wanted to be together. I go back to Megan’s twinkly eyes, Kate’s fiery hair and wit, Jaimie’s reassuring and sometimes snarky grin, Laura’s carefree curls, Anna’s gentle spirit and rich stories, Ashley’s fun yet melancholy presence, Kamper’s bursting joy, and Sam’s big dreams, which always left room for us.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, I go back to Kirkwood Avenue, the hub of life in town. I go back to leisurely walks snuggled in a sweater, watching the burgundy, gold and burnt orange leaves blow around my jeaned legs. I go back to sharing Jiffy Treat with my friends, getting my favorite coffee on the corner or just sitting outside and letting the sun warm my face. I go back to the relaxed outdoor diners, the well-lit bar entrances at night, early-morning breakfasts at the Runcible Spoon and afternoons just lying in the grass, watching the activity, not thinking about what I was missing in class.

I sing with Celine because I wish I could go back to that surprise road trip to Ohio where I was given one of the best birthday gifts ever. I go back to Little 500 weekend, filled with out-of-town friends, late-night dinners and cheering on our team. I go back to sharing an apartment with two beloved girls who loved me through big decisions and not-so-worth-it boys with cookie dough and endless episodes of <em>Grey’s Anatomy</em>. I go back to early morning runs through a quiet campus and sleepless nights fueled by coffee and polar pops and the fear that I may not get my project done. I go back to birthday cakes and movies and grades and group projects and football games and Christmas-shopping trips to Indianapolis.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, I am reminded of the tenderness and fragility of those years. I took it for granted at the time. Tears never went uncounted. Laughter was not only shared but a staple of every single day. And the priorities of life were defined for me: relationships came first and everything else would fall into place.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, I go back to that spring when I stood on the curb of the dorm driveway saying goodbye. I go back to the hugs, the gnawing sense of fear, the waves of nostalgia and the sense that life was going to be different from here on out. I go back to the journal writing and picture taking, the frantic attempt to catch every last moment and freeze time. I go back to the Sample Gates and the joy wrapped up in the congratulating and the dreaming and the breathlessness of not knowing, yet hoping for, what’s next. My teeth were clenched that day and my throat was tight, but the smile plastered on my face was to encourage them, and maybe most of all myself, that though things change, we don’t. And we can always go back.

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My husband and I like to have people over. One of our favorite things, when the weather affords it, is to gather around the fire pit in our backyard with friends and family while talking and laughing into the night. There’s something completely removed from the mundane routine of life when you are sitting under the stars and sharing hot cups of coffee or cold beers with people who can make you belly laugh for five minutes straight.

Recently, we had two of our couple-friends over for a Mexican dinner. We had tacos, enchiladas, guacamole, chips and salsa and watermelon. We heaped our plates full of food, stuffed ourselves and enjoyed each other’s company around the dining room table. Afterwards, the boys headed outside the start the fire while the girls helped me clean up. We started a pot of coffee, and began collecting camping and folding chairs to take out to the backyard.

Sometimes in the midst of nights like this, I step back and am surprised at the years that have gone by; the people we find ourselves surrounded with; and the ease and subtleness with which adult-life has sprung upon us. Often, I feel I am perpetually 18 years old, even though my life doesn’t reflect it. I sometimes still feel awkward ordering a drink at the bar, partially feeling like I’m not old enough to be sitting there. I sometimes am still surprised to have been married already for almost two years. I sometimes feel the same fears and insecurities I did at 18.

This particular night, I feel like a kid again in a good way. We roast marshmallows, laugh as we accidentally drop them into the fire, and make carefully-constructed s’mores. I feel like a kid again because we are laughing so hard I almost fall out of my camping chair, and because we are telling silly stories and making jokes.

But when things quiet down, one of my friends brightens. She is pregnant, and said she just felt the baby kick. My other friend and I immediately reach over and place our hands on her belly, staying as still as possible, hoping we feel the flutter.

As I look at my beautiful friends, their lovely faces smiling in the light of the fire, focused on a tiny growing life, it hits me again that we are old enough.

We are old enough to start families, to love these babies we haven’t even met yet, to support our friends who are new moms and dads. We are old enough to BE moms and dads. We are old enough start (or end) careers; to be teachers and nurses and doctors and lawyers and writers and business people. We are old enough to plan and save for vacations. We are old enough to have mortgages and cars and 401k’s.

We are old enough to have experienced intense joy and debilitating grief. We are old enough to know life doesn’t always pan out the way we plan. We are old enough to be OK and settled into our lives and to do the best that we can. We are old enough to appreciate the little things.

We are still young enough to dream, but old enough to understand life is more than what we do. It’s who we are and who we love.