It started out well enough. My mom came over to watch Sadie (who was already tucked into bed). We headed to the fireworks venue, got all set up, had a lovely picnic. Ella was having a grand old time chasing around a rubber ball I pulled from the trunk. She even made a new little friend, Michael. By the time evening fell, Ella and Michael were trading hugs and kisses like they had known each other a lifetime. (Note to self: Watch this girl as she gets to be dating age. She's a little free with the kisses....)
Darkness fell. And fell. And fell. We waited. And waited. It began to rain. We waited some more. Finally! The moment we had been anticipating! The fireworks began. And Ella FREAKED out. She wanted to go home. NOW!
So we left. We watched a bit of the show from the safety of the car, then headed home. Long story short, the fireworks were a bust. Ella compared them to "a big, scary monster."
Oh well. In all fairness, I got the picnic, the wine, and the fun family time.
Lest you feel too badly that Sadie missed out on all the fun, I should note that she got to attend a birthday celebration yesterday for her cousin, Nick (who has the misfortune of being born on the 4th of July). There was a pool, a trampoline, tricycles, balls, toy cars, a wagon. What more could a little girl ask for? More, apparently. We left around 6:30, when Ella proclaimed: "There's nothing to do here." Indeed.
In closing, I'd like to add: I HATE the 4th of July. Hate. It. I don't know if it's the city in general or just my neighbors, but it is like living (I imagine) in a war-torn country. Explosions ripped through our house well past midnight. Sadie barely slept. I barely slept. Have people no sense of time and place? Does anyone ever wonder: "Will my fireworks bother someone at 3 in the morning?" And the best part is: It's not over. We'll be hearing explosions in the middle of the night until September. Nothing like a holiday that encourages people to get drunk and then blow shit up.
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