Ignoring for a moment the fact that my four older children are at day camp this week with My Chemical Romance, ergo The Informant and My Masterpiece — and, honestly, My Chemical Romance — are all too tired to stay up for fireworks anyway — and yet the kids (at least) WANT TO stay up for them, so they’re disappointed/annoyed. And I don’t do fireworks, so Animal and Mineral aren’t pleased either.
First of all, fireworks are loud. They’re so loud, my baby keeps waking up so I’m writing this on my phone while she thrashes around half-asleep with my boob in her mouth. They also upset Tex, my former dog who belongs to my parents now. He’s probably hiding under a pillow right now.
Second of all, when I was three or four, we lived in a suburban town that held a fireworks show in a park three blocks from my house. Somehow I got separated from my mom during the show. I walked home, crying and jumping out of my skin every time a firework went off because they were LOUD and BRIGHT and I COULDN’T FIND MY MOM.
I’ve hated fireworks ever since. I used to pretend not to hate them — like I used to pretend not to hate wine — but now I just own it. I hate fireworks. They’re too loud. They’re over-stimulatingly loud, in my opinion. And too bright as well. And they separate families. Fireworks are stupid. JUST SAY NO!
I did promise the kids that we would get some sparklers this weekend for them, since they all missed out on real fireworks. I’m not heartless.