As a 17-year-old, I imagined future New Year’s Eves stretching out before me, each one luminous with possibility and romance. I envisioned that, once married, I would spend the last night of every year with my husband in an exotic location (I was a shameless romantic back then).
One year, he and I would travel to the tropical rainforests of northern Costa Rica and, on that New Year’s Eve, we would stay in the remote and rustic Arenal Lodge, counting down to midnight on the veranda while watching the nearby volcano glow with fiery hot lava. And, at another year’s end, we would fly to Paris and celebrate with a stroll along the Seine.
These dreams, as starry-eyed as they were, were fired by my gypsy-like heart and the belief that how we end the old year tells much about how we will spend the new.
Now, seventeen years later, I pause to see what this New Year’s Eve says about me and the year ahead. If the teenage me were watching, what would she think? I imagine her – a fly on the wall of my family room – expressing little but disbelief:
“Look at her. It’s New Year’s Eve and she’s at home sitting on her couch, of all things! Where is the man she loves? Who is that with her? Four little girls – two asleep on the floor in front of the television, one beside her on the couch and a baby in her arms?”
That confused 17-year-old girl would impulsively ask the 34-year-old mother that I am now, “What happened? Where are all your dreams? The romance? The excitement? You’ve given it up for this?” She would ask; but doubtful she would have the patience to stay for an answer. Rather, she would leave me to sort through this scene alone, to figure out how I left my 17-year-old-dreamer-self behind to end up on a couch with four sleeping kids and no husband in sight on the last night of the year.
Sorting through this night, I remind myself that my husband couldn’t be with me tonight because he had to be at work to deal with any glitches that might result from the turn of the year. Although not thrilled, I am resigned to the reality. After all, there is something to be said for a regular paycheck to support a growing family and reporting to work when required does much to keep the paycheck coming.
When we learned that my husband had to be away on New Year’s Eve, I thought, “OK, so plan B.” My daughters and I would have a slumber party. We would buy usually forbidden snacks, listen to pop music and dance and giggle the New Year in.
Everything was set when an acute respiratory virus squashed plan B, making my baby and four-year-old sick. We nixed the junk food and fun in favor of almost constant holding and comforting. Putting our pajamas on, we pulled out our pillows and blankets and positioned ourselves in front of the TV, searching for the best New Year’s Eve television coverage we could find. While watching the celebrations, my daughters fell asleep one by one, the last one dropping off around 10:30 p.m.
Knowing they would be disappointed if they missed midnight, I tried to wake my nine-year-old and five-year-old to watch the countdown in Times Square, and then an hour later to watch our city’s celebration on TV. Despite my best efforts, my daughters didn’t stir. They needed sleep far more than they needed to greet the New Year. So I met the New Year alone or, at least, as the only one conscious within earshot.
My 17-year-old self would have been horrified to see me sitting here on the couch on this night, but the 34-year-old me knows it’s really not so bad. There will be time for more romance and travel in the future. My husband and I have love enough to see us to that time.
For now, I am living in the land of motherhood, including weekends and holidays. While here, I have learned what the 17-year-old me could not have known very well – perspective, perseverance, and patience. I have also learned that love is strengthened by the tough times.
Almost a decade into motherhood now, I take things more in stride. A night like this isn’t the end of the world. Rather, it is the center of my life – being here with my children, sick and well. As I look into the faces of each of my sleeping daughters, I know that right now, outside of my husband, I am with the people I love most.
Looking back on my years as a mother, I see that, although opportunities for travel and romance have been rare, I have lived a good life with my husband and children. If tonight is any indication of what’s to come, it’s going to be a challenging but satisfying and truly meaningful New Year.
Epilogue
Debra wrote this piece eight years ago. Although she has yet to experience a New Year’s Eve alone with her husband in an exotic location, she holds out hope for an opportunity a few years down the road.
For now, she is immensely grateful for the wonderful and lively New Year’s Eves she shares with her husband and children at home.
