New Year's Eve was usually spent across the street with our friends and neighbors. 
 
The adults would hang out in the dining room, sipping wine and laughing over a large assortment of potluck dishes and the kids would be in the living room, sneaking sugary treats and dancing around the living room.
 
When the countdown started we'd all gather around the tv, the adults with plastic flutes of champagne and us with the same plastic flutes filled with sparkling cider. 
 
Everyone would count down in unison and then when the ball dropped we'd cheer loudly before the kids all made a beeline for the front door, where hours before we would have amassed a collection of pots, pans and wodden utensils. 
 
We'd run outside, the absolutely frigid January air stinging our warm faces, the moon high in the sky as we banged pots and pans, screaming, "Happy New Year!" At the top of our little lungs.
 
And when we got too cold, and our voices began to crack, we'd crunch back to our respective homes, icy grass under our shoes and we'd climb into warm beds... thankful to have been up way past bedtime, but also happy to resign to toasty electric blankets.
 
We rang in every New Year with a bang.