Wrapping up our December journey with warmth, laughter, and a hopeful wish for the year ahead.
When I look back on the New Year’s Eves of my
childhood, I can still feel the thrill of staying up almost late enough
to be considered a grown-up. I must have been around eleven when my parents
began heading out with friends to celebrate, leaving me, the eldest, in charge of
my brothers. I wore my sudden authority like a badge of honour, though my
brothers weren’t convinced of it. Our shared goal was noble: make it to
midnight and ring in the new year like champions.
Of course, most years our eyelids gave up the fight
long before the clock did. It wasn’t until I was about fourteen that we finally
managed to stay awake all the way to the magic moment. And when that
long-awaited stroke of midnight arrived, we made sure the universe knew it.
We grabbed pots, pans, and whatever wooden spoons
we could wrestle from the kitchen drawers and stormed out into the cold night
air, banging and clanging with all the enthusiasm of a marching band that had
never practiced a day in its life. We lived on a ten-acre plot with the house
smack in the middle. Our nearest neighbour was two miles away, which was
probably for the best, we certainly would have woken them, their livestock, and
their ancestors.
There’s something wonderfully pure about the noise
children make to celebrate a new beginning. It’s never polite or restrained.
It’s joyful chaos. It’s hope in audible form.
Years later, when my own children were about the
same age, my wife and I repeated the ritual, this time with actual neighbours
close enough to hear us. And hear us they did. But instead of phoning in noise
complaints, they simply came out with their own pots and spoons, laughing and
cheering right alongside us. There we were, families ringing in the new year
under a cold starlit sky, our breath puffing out in clouds as our children
created a percussive symphony that surely startled a few birds awake.
My favourite New Year’s memory, though, happened at
a party when my nephew was about two. My wife’s grandfather, well into his late
sixties disappeared upstairs just before midnight. We assumed he had gone to
grab a snack or escape the noise for a moment, as wise men sometimes do. But
when the clock struck twelve, down he came, grinning from ear to ear, carrying
my nephew like a prize turkey.
My nephew wore a glittery “Happy New Year” hat that
was far too large, slipping over his eyes. But the real show was the diaper he
wore, the current year written across it in sparkly letters, paired with a ribbon
wrapped around him that read, simply and dramatically, “GOODBYE.” A symbolic
gesture? A family tradition? Or just Grandpa’s sense of humour? Hard to say.
But it was unforgettable. My nephew yawned through the whole spectacle,
blissfully unaware that he had just become the ceremonial New Year baby.
As the years went by and I inched my way toward
retirement, my midnight stamina… did not. I found myself circling back to those
childhood days when staying up late felt like climbing Everest. At some point,
I quietly decided that ringing in the new year at 10 p.m. counted just fine.
Midnight is a suggestion, not a requirement. And let me tell you, toasting with
sparkling cider at 10:00 feels every bit as festive. maybe more so, given that
I’m still awake enough to enjoy it.
Whether you ring in the new year with a roar or a
whisper, at midnight or two hours early, with pots and pans or a gentle clink
of glasses, the beauty of this night is that it belongs to everyone. It doesn’t
require a fancy outfit (unless you’re a toddler in a labelled diaper), a lavish
party, or perfectly timed fireworks. All it needs is a moment, any moment, when
you pause and think:
Here we go. A fresh start. Another chance. Another
chapter.
And perhaps, just perhaps, a quiet gratitude for
having made it through the old year, with its ups, its downs, and its
puzzle-pieces-that-did-not-quite-fit. We carry our memories, our lessons, and
our joys into the next year like little lanterns lighting our path forward.
As this December series comes to an end, I want to
thank you for walking through the season with me, from stories of quiet moments
to reflections on family, pets, traditions, and the gentle joys that brighten
our days. I have loved writing these posts as much as I hope you’ve enjoyed
reading them.
So, no matter how you celebrate the new
year, whether with noise, with nostalgia, or with a sensible bedtime, I wish you
warmth, health, humour, and the happy surprises that life still has waiting for
you.
Happy New Year to you and your family—may it be bright, kind, and full of joy.
