So I rang in the New Year sober, thanks to my little girl (yes, that’s right, it’s a girl!) whose growth in my UU has been ticking along right on target all these week. And as my houseguests and DH indulged in glass of wine after glass of wine, or beer after beer, they looked at me with a half-pitying smile and said, “Poor Hope… another New Years sober.” I don’t like being pitied because I’m pregnant. I don’t like being pitied for any reason, in fact.
But the truth was, I couldn’t even remember if the 2011-2012 New Years celebration was a sober one for me, either. Or if the one before that, 2010-2011, was. They all started to blur together in my mind, especially as the reality of impending infertility began to rear its ugly head. I think I might have let my guard down three years ago and had a drink or two. And while many people find New Year’s an occasion to become the reveler you see in movies – doing shot after shot, playing music too loud, getting dressed up in the dead of winter and never wearing a coat – the sadness of my failure as a woman overrode the desire to get a buzz. Like many other holidays – Christmas especially – it was a somber reminder of the potential memories I would never have: kids falling asleep waiting for the ball to drop, or kids waking me up in their little nightgowns and footie pajamas to tell me it was the new year, or just kids to be thankful for.
I didn’t wake up my son for the celebration of the new year. I am too protective of his sleep patterns to allow that kind of disruption to take place, but also he’s really blissfully unaware of the meaning of days. There will come a time he’ll want me to let him stay up. Instead, I welcomed the new year with a new appreciation of the man my husband has become, to watch him as a father. I marveled at the family that I thought I would never have – and at the new family member to join us this year – and wondered how I got to be so lucky after what I thought was a dead end.