This is my 4th of July post from last year. And the year before. And it will be my 4th of July post forever because every 4th of July is exactly the same. Every 4th of July I fear for my life.
The holiday week kicked off nicely enough with a little father-son bonding time. My husband had decided to take Crazy on an overnight camping trip, which was a special treat. But as I stood in the driveway waving goodbye to them, I started to worry. I hoped my husband wasn’t using “camping” as a euphemism like when parents claim they’re taking your beloved pet to the “farm.”
Thankfully “camping” wasn’t code for “I’m taking him far, far away and tying him to a fencepost, and if anyone happens by who’s in the market for a young, friendly, good-natured male, they can have him.”
The next day both returned home no worse for the wear. Or at least seemingly so, but Crazy has a way of driving his father crazy, mostly with his incessant, repetitive chattering and pure, unadulterated enthusiasm for life. Kevin isn’t against enthusiasm, per say. He just prefers people to keep it to themselves. God! Why do people have to rub their enthusiasm in his face?
Meanwhile our son explodes with natural optimism and unadulterated joy. I know it doesn’t sound horrible, and when you think of all the unpleasant traits your kids could have, it’s really not. Except if you’re Kevin. He can only tollerate so much exuberance per day, and by the top of the fifth consecutive hour he begins to sour and quickly becomes enraged. (Just kidding, honey. I know you are a very patient man, and nobody should ever have to endure so much unbridled happiness.)
It’s not so much the happiness that enrages Kevin as it is the continual, high-voltage, explosive mode our son is set to. He’s always turbo charged unless you want him to do something like eat his dinner or get ready for school. Then he’s completely inert. Kevin, though, requires a tranquil, quiet, soothing environment to function so you can see my cause for concern when I learned the two were going to spend a full 24 hours together without my intervention.
Although that really shouldn’t have been my main concern over the holiday weekend. Every year an event that’s a lot more terrifying than my kid being left for dead on a country road takes place in my town over the 4th of July holiday. It’s called the town’s fireworks display.
At least with my child being left to perish in an undisclosed location, I could attempt a rescue. Well, if I was able to pry the information about his whereabouts out of Kevin. With the town fireworks, rescue might not be an option. Still, it doesn’t stop my husband or kids from wanting to go.
Tonight my family will take our lives in our hands and see the town firework display.
— OneFunnyMotha (@OneFunnyMotha) July 4, 2013
Every year we go, and every year I think I’m going to die. The show is that scary. I’m aware the display is being run by professionals, and I’m sure the experts employed by the town expressly for this purpose know what they’re doing, still I can’t help but wonder about the safety of pyrotechnics exploding two feet from your face.
I would never call into question the expertise of the professionals. It’s just that I’ve never been that close to massive amounts of explosives. And I’m not sure anyone really should be.
I’d rather watch the fireworks from the safety of my living room window because then I’d actually be able to relax and view the grand finale. While the high school’s field is billed as the best place to view the fireworks, by the time grand finale starts the grounds are so smoke-filled spectators can’t make out the brilliant bursts of shimmering color through the dense black haze. Instead of delighting at the pinnacle of the event, the crowd runs gasping and coughing from the field for a breath of carcinogen-free air.
Still, we survived. Sadly, we survived only to have to take our daughter to a One Direction concert. As if almost getting killed 10 years in a row for the pure amusement of your children (and husband) isn’t enough, we agreed to go to a very loud and long and not particularly good concert.
Live tweeting from One Direction concert. It’s very LOUD. Much screaming.
— OneFunnyMotha (@OneFunnyMotha) July 7, 2013
I liked One Direction well enough before the concert, but it turned out I only really knew one song. Fortunately, all the rest of their songs sound exactly the same so it’s kinda like hearing that one song over and over and over again. Also? Someone needs to tell the band concerts are mostly for singing. Cut back on the chit chat, okay? Then we can all get home at a decent hour. Also? More alcohol needs to be served. Not for the fans. For the parents. Because if I have to go to the concert, they should have to supply me with enough alcohol to withstand the concert. It’s only fair.
So that’s the nice relaxing holiday weekend. What about you? What are your plans? Anybody else planning on taking their life in their hands at the town fireworks display or teen concert?
You know what else is good for summer? My book. I STILL JUST WANT TO PEE ALONE is the third installment in The New York Times best-selling series from some of the funniest women on the web. Get it on Amazon, Kindle, iTunes and Barnes and Noble. I will love you forever.
Powered by Facebook Comments