Happy Fourth of July and Happy Birthday, America.
And after midnight tonight, good riddance to explosions.
I've long been a dud when it comes to fireworks. (Evidence here and here.) This year, I got even grumpier because our tortured dog hasn't wanted to go outside for a week, with all the firecrackers popping in the neighborhood. A dog who fears her bathroom is not a good thing. She wouldn't dream of relieving herself in the house so I'd pray her bladder wouldn't burst while I listened for a break in the action, dashed into the minefield, dragging the dog behind me, hoping that the dulcet tones of my voice encouraging her to do her thing would override the ka-booms from all quarters.
Last night, Atticus took the girls to a big fireworks display here in town. It looks something like this:
I perceive it as something like this:
Atticus and the kids joined another homeschooling dad/kid combo whose matriarch also stayed home. She: home with frightened human child ... I: home with petrified canine child.
I curled up with my shaky dog, a glass of wine and some curriculum catalogs and it was the loveliest fourth I've had in awhile. I am not a fun person.
When Atticus and the girls got home, we somehow got to talking about Monty Python, and now I think my most vivid (and delightful) memory of July 4, 2010 will be one of my girls gathered around the computer with their dad, helpless with laughter over the Ministry of Silly Walks.
(photos courtesy of Stock.Xchng)