So now, whenever December 31 rolls around, I abdicate control. I invite two or three close friends to stop by if they're so inclined; and if they're not, Johannes and I like to devote at least a couple of hours to horrifying the children with our general dorkiness. Last year, just before midnight, we got ourselves and the kids all bundled up and headed to the roof to watch fireworks light up the East River. We were pleasantly surprised to discover that unlike the Fourth of July, we had the roof all to ourselves. It was around 12:03 when one of us remembered that there are no fireworks over the East River on New Year's Eve. I guess sometimes you just don't get fireworks. But every once in a while, you get something even better: We stood there, huddled together at the top of the world in our flannel pajamas, down jackets, mittens, and scarves, our breath coming out in soft puffs that mingled and hung in the night, laughing like idiots—thinking that for better or for worse, these are the good old days. So good, in fact, we may do the exact same thing again this year.
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