The last adult New Year I celebrated was about a handful of years ago in the Windy City. Last night, on New Year’s Eve, I thought about my brother, shacking up at the Trump Tower and partying in Chicago again this year. I was home in Santa Barbara, eating my McConnell’s tart fro-yo while F drank his tea and sorted through some Boehm’s chocolates. By 9:30pm, I was happily tucked in bed working through the last of my vampire romance books. By 10:15pm, Happy New Year and Lights Out!
Tingting started crying out just before midnight. As usual, F and I tried to ignore her. She couldn’t possibly be hungry, we were both thinking to ourselves. As she continued to cry, it grew harder and harder for me to ignore because, given my Twilight-obsessed mind, her crying sounded more like what I imagined to be the shrieking of newborn vampires. (Read the books if you want more details on that.) Finally, F got up to feed her, because we knew that’s exactly what she wanted. As I started slipping back into sleep, I was snapped back to wakefulness by the sounds of a cough, gag, heave, and hushed “Oh, damn.”
I rushed out to the living room to find F and our couch covered with baby vomit. I looked at the clock — 12:05am.
Tingting let out a short babble.
“Happy New Year to you, too,” F responded.