Mom For the New Year
Lovely morning, lovely day, good start to the year. We used to miss the new year coming in; we'd just go to bed at the regular time. But when 2000 came in, we thought, well, we've got this child, and he's 3, so he'll remember this, and we want him to be able to say to any future children he might meet -- yes, I did indeed celebrate the moment at which the millennium didn't turn over but everybody except people like my parents thought it did. So we woke him up just before midnight, and dragged him downstairs, and we all sat and watched the ball drop in Times Square and toasted each other with what we call "wine juice" (that non-alcoholic stuff), and blew noise makers (his favorite part), and then went to bed.
This was such a success that we now do it every year. He went to bed a bit early last night, having exhausted himself with his Christmas toys, and we woke him up and watched the New York crowd (very funny guys, all that orange, in honor of our High Alert status; har har. Americans. My, my.) and went to bed and now we're having a nice day wherein we do not go to work and get to play with all our toys and read our books and knit our yarn and cook the southern food of our peoples.
My idea of a good time. One gets old.
James Lileks this morning, on having seen the new year in quietly, without fanfare, at home:
This would have seemed like HELL when I was 21. But what does any 21 year old really know about these things? I'm sorry, but there's a certain comfort in knowing that whatever may happen tonight, I will not be throwing up in a restaurant sink around 2 AM while waiting for pancakes. Been there, heaved that. I prefer the comforts of home now.
My feelings exactly.
As promised, "Queen Anne's Lace," as far as the corrugated ribbing and a bit of the body are concerned:
This should take me through the semester -- what is this, 7 stitches to the inch or so -- so it'll take a while to do. Will see many meetings and hear many presentations.
The child just came downstairs -- he said that sometimes he wishes he was his younger self. Like when he enjoyed playing with Legos differently than he does now. Do you still like playing with the Legos? I asked. Yes, he said, but sometimes he misses enjoying them the way he did when he was younger. Ah. This is common for the humans, especially at this time of year, I said, and there's a name for it. We call it nostalgia. Nothing's wrong with you, this is normal, but if it's making you nuts, try repeating a prayer over and over in your head -- kind of helps your brain jump the track, using something harmless to do it.
He had a little weep -- he has these fairly often -- and we've agreed that he's going to go put his clothes on and I'm going to finish blogging and we're going to cuddle.
So I'm off for now -- going to go be a mother for the New Year. Cool. Always good to be useful.
(Don't worry, those of you out there who are fond of him -- I know him well and believe he'll be just fine. He's just sort of given to dramatic spiritual and emotional moments. I do NOT know where he gets this.)
But hey, here's a thought; let's me NOT tell the child that someday he'll be nostalgic for this very morning. Let's leave well enough alone.
This was such a success that we now do it every year. He went to bed a bit early last night, having exhausted himself with his Christmas toys, and we woke him up and watched the New York crowd (very funny guys, all that orange, in honor of our High Alert status; har har. Americans. My, my.) and went to bed and now we're having a nice day wherein we do not go to work and get to play with all our toys and read our books and knit our yarn and cook the southern food of our peoples.
My idea of a good time. One gets old.
James Lileks this morning, on having seen the new year in quietly, without fanfare, at home:
This would have seemed like HELL when I was 21. But what does any 21 year old really know about these things? I'm sorry, but there's a certain comfort in knowing that whatever may happen tonight, I will not be throwing up in a restaurant sink around 2 AM while waiting for pancakes. Been there, heaved that. I prefer the comforts of home now.
My feelings exactly.
As promised, "Queen Anne's Lace," as far as the corrugated ribbing and a bit of the body are concerned:
This should take me through the semester -- what is this, 7 stitches to the inch or so -- so it'll take a while to do. Will see many meetings and hear many presentations.
The child just came downstairs -- he said that sometimes he wishes he was his younger self. Like when he enjoyed playing with Legos differently than he does now. Do you still like playing with the Legos? I asked. Yes, he said, but sometimes he misses enjoying them the way he did when he was younger. Ah. This is common for the humans, especially at this time of year, I said, and there's a name for it. We call it nostalgia. Nothing's wrong with you, this is normal, but if it's making you nuts, try repeating a prayer over and over in your head -- kind of helps your brain jump the track, using something harmless to do it.
He had a little weep -- he has these fairly often -- and we've agreed that he's going to go put his clothes on and I'm going to finish blogging and we're going to cuddle.
So I'm off for now -- going to go be a mother for the New Year. Cool. Always good to be useful.
(Don't worry, those of you out there who are fond of him -- I know him well and believe he'll be just fine. He's just sort of given to dramatic spiritual and emotional moments. I do NOT know where he gets this.)
But hey, here's a thought; let's me NOT tell the child that someday he'll be nostalgic for this very morning. Let's leave well enough alone.
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