We didn’t do a whole lot this Fourth of July. I was knocked on my butt all weekend with a cold/flu/sinus infection. (See what I mean about that little grey cloud?) Ryan was still recovering from, well, 24 different things.
It’s too hot in Phoenix to really enjoy fireworks the way Mike and I used to as kids in Ohio/Pennsylvania. Temperatures are bearable by the time the show starts, sure, but to get there a couple hours early and get a good seat? With the sun beating down? Nah.
So we busted out Ryan’s baby pool and let him splash around instead.
We figured that was probably going to be the hightlight of the holiday. I mean, Mike did make an excellent dinner of grilled brats and corn on the cob, but I’m only assuming it was excellent based on prior experience cuz I couldn’t taste a darn thing. The textures, however, were amazing.
Anyway, Ryan seemed sufficiently exhausted around 8 p.m., so we put him down for the night. I told him he was going to miss the fireworks on TV, but that was ok cuz we’d be sure he got to see them next year. “You don’t even know what fireworks are, so you won’t be missing much,” I told him gently.
Kid then decided that he was not interested in sleeping. He proceeded to continuously throw his binky out of his crib and/or get up on his knees to practice his crawling for the next hour. After many attempts at “shhhhh’ing” and some “Dude, why won’t you sleep?” thrown in, we gave up and Mike carried him out to the living room.
Right as the fireworks were starting.
So the three of us cuddled up on the couch, with Ryan sitting perfectly still between us, mouth slightly open, staring intently at the TV screen.
It was magical in a you’re-supposed-to-be-in-bed-but-instead-we’re-making-a-memory sort of way.
I think on some level, he knew those fireworks were symbolic of something so important and that we sometimes take for granted: freedom. I think he could feel the sacrifice of so many brave men and women who came before him and made that freedom possible.
Either that or he liked the bright lights.