2020 managed to sneak maximum drama in during the final few hours. Our 18month old lost his balance on the last step and went full force headfirst into the edge of the door frame. A 2020 sized goose egg appeared almost immediately – as if paying homage to the symmetrically balanced 2’s and 0’s of this years digits, that we’ve all come to dislike.

Growing up in the 1980’s the year 2020 seemed so far and impossibly futuristic. I’d be in my “40’s” and my sister and I would cackle to consider how impossibly futuristic and “old as dust” we would feel. Yet somehow we made it. It’s not futuristic in the ways we thought while we were young and wearing every shade of neon tie-dyed print covered ill fitting baggy pants that could easy to double as a sos flag seen from space should we be suddenly shipwrecked.

We are older but don’t feel quite exactly old like dust. Though this fast-slow year where time became our enemy and the futility of trying to control it – or anything – ripped off all of us like a sticky, well adhered bandaid. Taking more than its fair share of out of everyone.

The 2020 goose egg growing out of our toddlers forehead and the angry pained screaming that ensued was enough to derail dinner being put on the table and warranted a trip to the children’s hospital emergency room. Which was obviously super fun and exactly what was needed at 6pm on New Year’s Eve.

He was fine. We were fine – another notch in the emotional trauma tree of raising children.

Dinner was fine, reheated and eventually on the table two hours later. 2020 was not fine but we got through it. Somehow.