My first child and daughter Paige has always had her own agenda, and her debut into the world was no different. Still, notwithstanding a childbirth experience that was way--WAY--worse than any sixth grade health class video ever depicted, I loved Paige for choosing this day to be born.
Through a delirium of opiates, epidurals, measured breathing, and more wild shrieking, I still felt unmitigated joy, knowing that I would never, ever again need to have a plan for New Year's Eve. I would always have an excuse to do nothing--you know, in honor of my child's birthday. Think of the children!
It's not that I don't like to have a good time. Anyone who knows me knows that. It's just that I simply CANNOT with the "forced revelry" situation. It's why I stopped having birthday parties at age 7 and why I refused to have a wedding and why I hate New Year's Eve.
I don't like the pressure of "having" to have fun. Because most of the time, whatever you do, it feels anti-climactic and disappointing because there is this whole culture of pressurized forced revelry. That defeats the purpose of fun to me. A good time is supposed to be organic. It's supposed to arise naturally. Like when you run into a clown on Coney Island with an iguana on a leash and he asks you to drive him to see his cousin in prison on Riker's Island...Oh, nevermind. Story for another time.
Point being: I've been a lot more relaxed about New Year's Eve ever since I crapped out a kid on this most high-pressure partiest of all party nights. Or at least I will be, until Paige gets old enough to double-party. As long as she doesn't get knocked up too soon and start the cycle all over again, it'll be a Happy New Year for yours truly.