For Auld Lang Syne, My Dear

New Years Eve is a tricky holiday.

I remember really looking forward to it in college. A new outfit, a big party, breakfast at a local diner in the wee hours. Then sleeping in on New Years Day and waking up hoarse, parched and a little fuzzy on the details.

My opinion, not surprisingly, has ebbed and flowed over the years.

The big party scene faded from prominence when all of my friends began pairing off with serious partners and preferring more quiet, intimate gatherings to celebrate the holiday. And then I paired off with Lars and did the same. More so with his friends than mine.

And then the holiday becomes a holiday that you play by ear. If you are invited somewhere, great. If not, no big deal. And when kids come along, it feels better to be home while the world goes nuts one time zone at a time than to leave them with a babysitter. Maybe you’ll stay up to watch the ball drop. Maybe you won’t. And maybe you’ll stomp off to bed at 11:58 when your husband and his friend return from an NFL Playoff game 4 hours after the final buzzer, completely shit-faced, and knock over the Christmas tree trying to plug in the lights that simply must be lit at that hour.

OK – I stayed up on December 31, 1999 just to make sure the Earth didn’t go crashing into the sun. Who didn’t?

And I stayed up as we tiptoed to the finish line of 2009 to let my tweens bang pots and pans so they could trot off to school 2 days later and say that they had. And had hats and blowers and hors d’oeuvres, and Mommy’s boyfriend was asleep on the couch and didn’t really care for all the pot and pan clanging at the appointed hour. Party pooper. That more or less set the stage for his 2010 didn’t it?

And so even though it is, in my estimation, by no means a special holiday, when you have someone special in your life, and that life seems ripe with potential, the idea of New Years seems like a big deal.

But Scott’s plans to whisk me away to the beach for a midnight fireworks show and a long walk on the boardwalk holding hands was not meant to be.

He’d have dinner with family and take his girls to the fireworks, and I would be at home with my kids, listening to Dick Clark slur his words, and watching Ke$ha aspire “to not be a douchebag” as her nationally televised New Years Resolution, and eating far too many crab puffs and baby quiches.

And while all of this would be fun and memorable, it will somehow seem incomplete. Scott will be watching fireworks light up a sky that I don’t see. And me and my kids will jump around and make noise and kiss at midnight.

But one kiss will be left over, unbestowed.