I think I’m a Fourth of July party pooper.
It isn’t that I don’t like freedom and living in America (because I do, I really, really do) it’s all the parades and fireworks that make me shiver and cringe.
It all started (insert Scooby Doo transition scene) . . .
I remember it well, we were watching a big fireworks show when I bit into a piece of peanut brittle and out popped my baby tooth and I lost it in the dark grass. Oh the injustice! I’d been waiting for that tooth to fall out and now I had no tooth to put under my pillow. The tooth fairy wouldn’t come! I freaked. My parents assured me I could write a note, but I was certain the tooth fairy would think I was a liar. A liar! I cried and cried and cried. (The tooth fairy DID come and I received big money too—note to kids: when your tooth falls out, lose it. There’s more money to be made that way).
Again, when I was a kid, I was twirling sparklers when I dropped one on the ground. It was dark. I couldn’t see, but I picked it up anyway and burnt my finger and thumb. I received two big ol’ blisters for my effort.
Another time, again as a kid, my family went to California to visit relatives over the Fourth of July. In California, fireworks are illegal. So we celebrated the Fourth with watermelon. That was it. Watermelon. That’s not right.
As a teenager, my best friend chose to move across the country on the Fourth of July. I watched him pack up his VW and drive away while fireworks blasted in the dark sky over head. So sad.
As for parades, I was a super cool rocking clarinet player (okay, not) and was FORCED to march in a ton of sweltering hot parades dressed head to toe in black—yes, black. Black polyester pants, matching cowboy looking hat with plume, black shoes, and two shirts (one white t-shirt to wear under our uniform so we didn’t leave sweat stains on the school issued shirts). Cruel. Mean. EVIL. It was awful. Some kids buckled and fainted. Others just sweated profusely. Oh, and if we marched behind horses, we were told (more like commanded) to NEVER break line. Walk through the poop. EVIL. We marched for miles in the sun on dark pavement with poop on our shoes. That’s not fun.
Yep, I’m a Fourth of July party pooper.
Yesterday, I took my kids to the parade. While they gathered candy and Frisbees, I proceeded to fall asleep. I didn’t mean too. It just kind of happened. So in the midst of school bands (oh, how I pity those kids) and fire engines, I snoozed—part exhaustion, part boredom. I didn’t mean too. It just kind of happened. This happened after I stood for the flag and waved at little old veterans—I am patriotic after all. I’m not a traitor or anything like that, just not a fan of parades.
I do enjoy the big firework shows. They’re beautiful. I do NOT, however, like neighborhood firecracker blasting outside my bedroom window until 2am. The boom, boom, pow, snap, sizzle and flash of light really ticks me off. (This was how my night has been the past two days—such joy).
I love America. I love my country and I love my freedom and the soldiers who fight, or who have fought, so that I can enjoy the life and freedoms I have. I am grateful. I really am. My flag waves in front of my home as tribute to those who have lost their lives in that pursuit. My prayers go out to those families who have loved ones fighting current wars right now.
I just wish my redneck neighbors would blow things up before midnight so I could get my sleep. I mean, don’t they realize I spent all morning and most of the afternoon sitting in the sun surrounded by thousands of people watching a slow moving parade?
It isn’t that I don’t like freedom and living in America (because I do, I really, really do) it’s all the parades and fireworks that make me shiver and cringe.
It all started (insert Scooby Doo transition scene) . . .
I remember it well, we were watching a big fireworks show when I bit into a piece of peanut brittle and out popped my baby tooth and I lost it in the dark grass. Oh the injustice! I’d been waiting for that tooth to fall out and now I had no tooth to put under my pillow. The tooth fairy wouldn’t come! I freaked. My parents assured me I could write a note, but I was certain the tooth fairy would think I was a liar. A liar! I cried and cried and cried. (The tooth fairy DID come and I received big money too—note to kids: when your tooth falls out, lose it. There’s more money to be made that way).
Again, when I was a kid, I was twirling sparklers when I dropped one on the ground. It was dark. I couldn’t see, but I picked it up anyway and burnt my finger and thumb. I received two big ol’ blisters for my effort.
Another time, again as a kid, my family went to California to visit relatives over the Fourth of July. In California, fireworks are illegal. So we celebrated the Fourth with watermelon. That was it. Watermelon. That’s not right.
As a teenager, my best friend chose to move across the country on the Fourth of July. I watched him pack up his VW and drive away while fireworks blasted in the dark sky over head. So sad.
As for parades, I was a super cool rocking clarinet player (okay, not) and was FORCED to march in a ton of sweltering hot parades dressed head to toe in black—yes, black. Black polyester pants, matching cowboy looking hat with plume, black shoes, and two shirts (one white t-shirt to wear under our uniform so we didn’t leave sweat stains on the school issued shirts). Cruel. Mean. EVIL. It was awful. Some kids buckled and fainted. Others just sweated profusely. Oh, and if we marched behind horses, we were told (more like commanded) to NEVER break line. Walk through the poop. EVIL. We marched for miles in the sun on dark pavement with poop on our shoes. That’s not fun.
Yep, I’m a Fourth of July party pooper.
Yesterday, I took my kids to the parade. While they gathered candy and Frisbees, I proceeded to fall asleep. I didn’t mean too. It just kind of happened. So in the midst of school bands (oh, how I pity those kids) and fire engines, I snoozed—part exhaustion, part boredom. I didn’t mean too. It just kind of happened. This happened after I stood for the flag and waved at little old veterans—I am patriotic after all. I’m not a traitor or anything like that, just not a fan of parades.
I do enjoy the big firework shows. They’re beautiful. I do NOT, however, like neighborhood firecracker blasting outside my bedroom window until 2am. The boom, boom, pow, snap, sizzle and flash of light really ticks me off. (This was how my night has been the past two days—such joy).
I love America. I love my country and I love my freedom and the soldiers who fight, or who have fought, so that I can enjoy the life and freedoms I have. I am grateful. I really am. My flag waves in front of my home as tribute to those who have lost their lives in that pursuit. My prayers go out to those families who have loved ones fighting current wars right now.
I just wish my redneck neighbors would blow things up before midnight so I could get my sleep. I mean, don’t they realize I spent all morning and most of the afternoon sitting in the sun surrounded by thousands of people watching a slow moving parade?
