He was promised (a pinky swear, even) that he could stay up until midnight this year. He’s never stayed up that late. He did, once, make it until 11 at a sleepover with his teenaged cousins and he was an absolute bear the next day. But that was a whole year ago and he seems to have done a lot of growing in that time. Two pounds, two and a half inches, and a fair amount of tolerance for late nights. At this year’s cousin sleepover, he was a little ornery the next day, but nothing like before, which is why I shouldn’t really be worried about New Year’s Eve.
Except I totally am.
It’s not like he will be cozied up next to me on the couch alone at midnight either. We will be at someone else’s house, with a bunch of other people, after having partied with the kids he’s known his whole life for five solid hours. I am not expecting any of it to be pretty.
Maybe between now and 24 hours from now I will find a way to adjust my expectations. To project a positive outlook. To expect the best instead of the worst. Maybe between now and 2016 I will figure out some game plan that will make ringing in the new year with a drunkenly exhausted 7-year-old at least a little tolerable. (At least he’s a happy drunk.)
In the meantime, I’m actually just delighted that I have a happy, healthy, joyful family with which to celebrate. So, cheers to that, right?
Happy New Year.