Having a Blast on the Fourth of July

My friend Penny e-mailed to say that her family participated in the annual 4ht of July parade in Chatham, NJ. It warmed up to the 70s for the occasion and she said the humidity was low and the weather was beautiful, and judging by the pictures she sent, her holiday was too. It’s hard to imagine a high in the 70s when we were melting under 90-plus temperatures in sauna-like humidity. But I love a Southern summer day, especially in July.

Last evening, we headed over to my husband’s TV station. He and his co-anchor Janice have been hosting the fireworks show during the 9 o’clock news for the past several years. They broadcast from the roof of the station, which is atop Red Mountain. Two doors down is the might Vulcan statute, where the fireworks are lit.

This is the fourth year we’ve taken Truman and each year he enjoys it more and more. This year he was old enough to idolize Janice’s 9-year-old son, Noah. The two of them had a ball watching the fireworks, playing with the mics after the show, and walking like Frankenstein around the station after the festivities.

It’s a far cry from the first time we took Truman, when he was 2 ½. Back then, he sat through most of the show but demanded I hold my hands over his ears. Toward the end he wanted to go inside, so we walked down to the lobby and sat in a chair next to the entry doors. Truman sat patiently in my lap as the crowed passed out the door just in front of us. Just as I looked up and saw Rick walking down the curved stairway to meet us, Truman’s belly went concave, and he projectile vomited across the lobby, into the path of passersby. Children shouted, “Oh gross,” some gagged. Truman cried, and I sat there with my mouth open, holding a drenched and smelly toddler, not knowing what to do.

Cynthia, who has four children and now works for another station, rushed over and put paper towels down over the brown mess. She said, “It’s OK. Really. It’s OK.” After staring at me as blankly as I did him, Rick carefully picked up our soggy son, carried him to the bathroom and stripped him down to his diaper. We carried him outside as he wailed, “I want my clothes back.” What a pleasant memory.

I’d say our departures from the July 4th fireworks celebration (Thunder on the Mountain) have since been far more tame, but not this year. Truman wandered off with Noah and stumbled, slamming his lips onto the marble countertop in the lobby. Blood gushed, Truman cried, and I calmly carried my little boy to the bathroom, washed off the blood, and surveyed the damage. He busted both the upper and lower lips, but no teeth were lost and no stitches required. He found comfort in sucking a paper towel and drifted off gently on the slow ride home through traffic. And we took comfort in knowing we were finally getting this parenting thing.

Photos, JWJourney