We tried to go to bed around 10, knowing that millions of fireworks would wake us up at the stroke of midnight, the turn of their new year. Daniel slept right through it. I did not. First I buried my head under my pillow and wondered why we did not flee to Thailand during this time like so many of our friends. Then I got up, put on my Crocs, grabbed my keys, and slipped out into the stairwell and up to the roof. I was not prepared for what I would see.
All around this city, this city that is home to more people than the state of Arkansas, fireworks, HUGE, real-deal fireworks, were going off simultaneously. Car alarms screamed in all directions. The skyline of the mountains were seen through the smoky haze in the red and blue and green and purple light. The sound was like, perhaps, a city being bombed at night, over and over. And this will last for two straight days, letting up only between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m., give or take.
Now it is 12:40 a.m., and I am up with the bangs and the booms and twitter-tats. I will not sleep tonight. My husband and children are snoozing peacefully. At least I can be thankful for that. I might throw some brownies in the oven and open the book I am reading. I might search the internet for girl baby bedding. What I am really in the mood for is dying my hair. Good thing I don't have any hair dye or Daniel might wake up to a redhead. Happy New Year, honey!
And then I glance out the window and, honestly, it is beautiful. It gets a little old, but it is beautiful. The Year of the Tiger. Errrr...
