Nothing says the 4th of July like fire. Since becoming a father, my husband's array of fireworks suddenly seem like they fit squarely within the confines of the law. It's not to say that he used to set off illegal fireworks. It's just that I remember years when I thought, "my, that display seems to go awfully high." I also remember going to other people's houses where everyone dove under the Adirondack chairs at the sound of a siren.
My memories of the 4th of July are of cousins who were allowed to light fireworks off of the cap to our well. We weren't allowed to play on that cap but for some reason, the big boys were allowed to play with fire there. It's a fond memory, peppered with slight feelings of gender inequity.
Now that we have kids, I am a mom. People start lighting things and I'm yelling, "YOU ARE GOING TO BLOW YOUR ARM OFF." I never thought I would be that person but here I am. Frankly, I don't care that I am that person. Do you have any idea how many people were in the emergency room today for injuries that could have been avoided? I'm just saying.
So I may have prepped my kids for the 4th of July with stories of getting burned by sparklers. I know, scandalous. The funny thing is, my husband apparently had already scared them with stories about getting burned by sparklers. Who knew that so many people had stories about getting burned by sparklers? I got a hole in my favorite skirt and a burn on my leg from a sparkler. Those things are dangerous. When we finally rolled out our little fireworks display, it was only when the sparklers came out that a hush fell over the crowd.
Nate went running into the house. Ethan held his sparkler until nearly the end, when he dropped it and ran. Me?
Held mine over my head, twirling it as fast as I could. I figure they have all the time in the world to learn to not be afraid of sparklers. It works to my advantage that they are now.