Now that I am in my thirties and a mom I sometimes get called “old” by my younger friends. This is, of course, ridiculous. My husband Mike may be old considering that he falls asleep on the couch before ten p.m. and suddenly loves “Dateline NBC,” but NOT me. I am down with the kids, people. I totally watch “Glee” and even know who Justin Beiber is dating (Selena something or other, right?). There is, however, one time of year that I don’t mind being called old – on New Year’s Eve.
It wasn’t always this way. I used to live for New Year’s Eve. I spent the weeks leading up to the 31st asking around tirelessly, determined to uncover the coolest party or event my friends and I could attend, and I usually did.
Later, when Mike I first started dating, we had some epic New Year’s Eves too. I could describe them to you (what I remember of them, that is), but this picture gives you the idea:
Our best New Year’s Eve came on our honeymoon, when we rang in the New Year on a boat in the Sydney Harbor. We kissed at midnight as fireworks lit up the Australian sky.
The next year everything changed. My daughter, Madeline, had been born premature, and was going to spend her first New Year’s Eve in the NICU. Suddenly, getting dressed up and attending a cool party seemed really unimportant. The only thing I wanted that night was be with her.
Ever since I have felt differently about New Year’s Eve. Drunk Drivers, hang-overs, $150 dollar tickets just to get into a party hosted by Snooki? Who needs it? (And don’t even get me started on what babysitters charge on NYE.)
I still like to have fun on New Year’s Eve, but in a mellow, dare I say old person kind of way. This year Mike and I will celebrate at a friend’s house, and at midnight you will find us raising a toast from the couch with our kids asleep at our feet. And you know what? At this point in my life that sounds pretty perfect.