Who decided that the 4th of July was a time for blowing up shit?
I’ve read that fireworks were used to boost the morale of the troops during the Revolutionary War. I like the thought of a good morale boost. I need one right now because the mom in me is on pins and needles here as I spend Independence Day in the great state of Indiana where fireworks are legal, and my husband and 11 year old son are all about blowing up EVERYTHING IN FUCKING SIGHT!
Last year I stayed home. I let the husband person take the kids and I pretended that I was a single, successful gal. The force of denial is strong in me, so it was ALL good. Dad in charge means the kids are happy, and me not being around means I don’t have to assume my role as resident bitch, quoting statistics on firework related injuries and deaths.
My plan for this year was to continue my newfound tradition of denial and delusion as I said SAYONARA, to my loves on Friday. My daughter’s monumental meltdowns resulted in my requested presence, so here I am.
I want to make it clear that I am not anti-firework. I like the glittery madness. I especially enjoy lying on a blanket, looking up into the sky while patriotic music blares in the background. What I don’t like is being anywhere near the staging area, which is exactly where I was last night.
I can’t decide what flipped me out more, the rogue fireworks shooting’ off in the wrong direction through my sister in law’s legs, setting her chair on fire, or my 11 year old son sauntering around flicking a lighter like it’s just normal behavior.
YOU HEARD ME, MY KID HAD A LIGHTER!
I briefly wondered if I was seeing things as he walked toward me, grinning and all pleased with himself. Did he think for a moment that I wasn’t going to go completely ballistic?
BOOM! I went nuts on both the boy and his father. Boy claims his dad gave him permission, Dad denies this. The kid thinks I’m over-reacting. The husband was too focused on blowing up hundreds of dollars of explosives with the other man-children to care much about my opinion. I took the lighter from my kid and went inside.
Blow your damn faces off, I DON’T CARE.
As the mother of a boy and wife of a man-child, I’m used to dangerous stunts and general mayhem. Boys are nuts in the best way and most of the time I laugh. I’m not an overprotective, helicopter parent but explosives are just one of the areas where my usually flexible style turns into adamantium.
At this point, the boy will be lucky if I let his scrawny, pre-pubescent ass wave a sparkler around (which burns anywhere from 1800 to 3000 degrees Fahrenheit, and is responsible for over 50% of all firework related injuries), and the husband is walking around like a dog that got caught pissing on the carpet.
Sometimes parents have to agree to disagree and I think it’s healthy for kids to hear both sides of an opinion, just not this opinion. I’ll engage in dialogue with the hub over just about any topic related to the kids. It’s surprising how different we feel about certain parenting issues, and we are good at seeing each other’s point of view.
I can be flexible, just not when it comes to the idea of my kid getting his face blown off on America’s birthday.
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