Deborah Woehr

I’ve had some memorable New Year’s Eve celebrations, like the time my friends and I were running around half-lit in the cold. I had a jacket on, but my cheap loafers got soaked from the wet grass we were running through. Drink and time has punched permanent holes in this memory, but I remember running through the grass. Then I remember lying on my mother’s sofa, cocooned in blankets, trying to get warm and go to sleep before we went on a long road trip to my aunt’s. That was New Year’s Eve of ‘87. I was 21 years old and months away from meeting the man that was to become my husband.

I don’t remember New Year’s Eve of ‘97, except to say that I had turned into a night owl, thanks to my youngest. Most nights I spent in front of the computer, writing and listening for his cries when he lost his pacifier. I had just shelved my very first manuscript and was working on the rough of the book that was to become Prosperity.

New Year’s Eve of ‘07. I’ve officially reached middle age, although I can hardly believe it. Prosperity is published. I’m working out the final details of my first virtual blog tour, which promises to be fun. I didn’t get much sleep the night before, so I turned in around 11 and was dead asleep when midnight struck. That was fine. My family and I celebrated on Friday, when we met our group of friends at the mall. We sent the boys upstairs to suffer through Alvin and the Chipmunks while we ate a nice dinner.

New Year’s Day has always signified the end of the “magic” that was the holidays. I remember fighting back the tears when my mother took down the Christmas tree. Santa Claus was long gone, and everything was returning back to normal, which wasn’t a good thing. As a young adult, I nursed mild hangovers and hoped for a better new year. As a mother, I prayed for a good night’s sleep.

Today, as I’m writing this post, I’m visualizing all these memories, which are now ghosts inside my head. New Year’s Day no longer depresses me. In fact, I feel invigorated.