Since pushing three children out of my uterus, my new year’s celebrations have been relatively tame. It’s not as though I lost the urge to party like it’s 1999 with every subsequent pregnancy. It’s more I have no desire to try and find a sitter who would generally end up to be some drugged out tween with more body piercings than I have and then be forced to fork over hundreds of my husband’s hard earned dollars all for the privilege of dancing on a few speakers and blowing into a noise maker at midnight and then whispering and and whimpering for an ice pack, dried toast and some facking tylenol, please, the next day.

(That is a lovely run on sentence. My grade nine teacher would be proud.)

Instead of paying for that misery, I thought to myself, how could I do that for less? What could be better? And more painful?

Hmmm….Something that includes the children, is cheap and fun. And includes alcoholic beverages. Cuz it’s new year. (Like I need a reason to crack open the vino….)

In my lovely twisted brain, a mental image sprung forth, and our new year’s party was born.

We’re having a skating party.

Cuz nothing says “Happy New Year!” like falling on your ass while being circled by small children wearing knives on their feet as you are slightly inebriated.

Never mind the fact I haven’t been on skates since I was ten. That would be 22 years ago for those of you doing the math.

Never mind the fact I don’t own skates. I do own a pond. That’s all I need.

(Well, common sense would help too…)

So the hubs bought me some skates shoveled off the pond to make way for the big night. Common sense told me I better at least try my skates on before having hordes of people descend to my house to witness my ass breaking so the family and I bundled up and trudged out to the pond.

It was painfully obvious the moment I stood up on my skates for the first time in two decades that this was a FACKING stupid idea. I figured that out the moment my ass hit the ground. Which was ONE second after I stood up.

My darling husband and my loving children never laughed so hard in their short little lives. Which are now going to be a whole lot shorter since they’ve wounded my ego. Heh. (I kid. Kinda.)

After slipping and sliding and begging for the ice to crack and swallow me whole, I finally managed to skate a short length. Except I forgot how to stop. So down I went again.

While my husband took pictures and cackled about how I’ve been brought down by my own stupidity and my children howled with laughter. AND NO ONE OFFERED TO HELP ME UP.

Ya. So they knew if they tried to pull me up I’d yank them right down into the gutter with me. Still, they could have at least pretended.

And no, I’m not sharing those photos with you. They’ve mysteriously been deleted. I don’t know what happened.

Wink, wink.

After an hour of so, I finally found my skating legs which I feared had been lost in time along with my perky boobs and taut stomach muscles. I can once again skate. It’s not pretty, but I can live with that.

I can now actually participate in my brilliant idea. At least until my ass becomes more bruised than my fragile ego. Then I’ll stick to the snow banks and just serve booze. I mean, egg nog.

My guests are in for a spectacular show tonight. And I’m not talking about the fireworks I bought at the local gas station, either.

He he.

May your new year be filled with much love and joy. And decidedly less bruises than mine.