This may come as a surprise, but the Fourth of July is not my favorite holiday, what with the sweat and the outdoors and the noise and the kids being up past 9:00. And this year’s festivities managed to be notably unpleasant despite the fact that I did not venture outside.
We had invited guests to come over for dinner at 6:00 and they showed up at 5:45, about four minutes after I returned from Walmart to a filthy kitchen, a full dishwasher and a sleeping baby in need of a bath. (I cannot even begin to relate why I was returning from the store so close to the time our guests were supposed to arrive, and no, everything would not have been perfectly in order had they been on time rather than 15 minutes early, but at least it would have been a bit more pulled together. Not that anyone’s judging or anything.)
At least I got to stay home with the baby while Chris took the older girls to the fireworks display, where they sat in the hot, cramped van for an eternity (to hear the girls tell it, anyway) only to learn that the big show was rained out. But the downpour did not deter our neighbors from celebrating explosively on 4th as well as on the 3rd, 5th and YES, 6th. I was tempted to call the cops when they were still blowing stuff up on Monday night, but when they lit a bunch of firecrackers at 11 p.m. Tuesday, sending Ella scampering up to our room for the, oh I don’t know, 15th night in a row, I was ready to move to Canada.