So once upon a time somebody decides arbitrarily (or maybe not so arbitrarily) that the planets current location in its orbit around the Sun is the beginning of its next orbit, and that day is called January 1st, the first day of the New Year. All these centuries later, as if we're passing "Go" and collecting another $200 we're supposed to celebrate it. I did for a while, until I realized that a drunk December 31st is just like a drunk (month/day here) only riskier because everyone else is out being stupid, too.
So New Year's Eve just became another night quietly spent, especially once I became a husband and father. Have some drinks, have them at home, relax...
Until 31 December 2003, when the fetus inside my 38-weeks pregnant wife failed a non-stress test/bio-physical profile. She was already transitioning into labor, so the doctors helped her along with some additional hormones and at 10pm EXACTLY my oldest daughter came into the world.
So for five years now, I've finally been given a reason to celebrate December 31st. That reason is a bright, artistic, athletic girl, who is an amazing singer (her whole life is a musical, to hear her tell-no, sing - it), a wonderful improvisational dancer, and a great soccer player. Oh, and she's hard-headed, knows what she wants, and is not afraid to ask for it or just go get it for herself.
Happy Birthday, my dear.
In short: Chandler (1971)
16 hours ago