Ah, New Year’s. To be honest, the new year always starts in September for me, psychologically speaking, but I love January, too. I became a mother in the month of January on a beautiful, clear day when the sky was so blue and snow was on the ground. Being a mommy was my #1, non-negotiable, must-have life goal, so I love this month and feel a camaraderie with it—January, which gave me my beloved daughter.
Aside from that, though, there’s something very clean and pure about the month. The tree and all the cheerful holiday clutter is tidied up, and the house seems bigger and brighter. The days get a little longer each day, and the sun bounces off the snow. In the past couple of years, I’ve started new books in January, and I will this year, too. I generally have a new pair of jammies to wear in January, courtesy of McSanta, and for some reason, that makes me feel chipper, too.
In years past, I’d throw a little New Year’s Eve party for my kids and one or two of their friends. I don’t like going out on New Year’s, but I liked having some festivity here at home. McIrish often works the holiday, covering for the guys who do like to go out or have family plans that night, so it’d just be the kids and me. We’d play some loud music, have a snowball fight if the weather allowed, go dark-sledding in our field, the dog bouncing joyfully alongside us as we whooshed down the hill. Then I’d make them some extravagant whipped-creamy dessert. We’d have a blind taste-test, a talent show, Mardi-gras style parade in which the kids would create elaborate costumes. Then, when they were in bed, I’d watch some trashy TV show; one year, America’s Next Top Model had a marathon, and I sat there, eating spinach dip and Wheat Thins, utterly content to say goodbye to the year, grateful for the blessings of my children and family and friends, looking forward to the things that were yet to come.