So, earlier this week, I posted about how R-kids and I celebrated the last day of school. It’s our own mini-tradition. Kind of a symbolic and joy-filled way to kick off summer. Someone out there might have seen the pictures and thought, “what a quaint idea.”
But last night over some late-night appetizers, the girls heard the story behind the story. And let’s just say:
It wasn’t pretty.
That’s when I realized, heck, why should the rest of the world think R-kids and I had some sort of fairytale evening over here that was all sparklers and giggles and smiles?
I mean, who has those kinds of evenings anyway?
So, here are some of the parts you didn’t see in my previous post. I’ll just trust that you’ll still be my friend when you’re done:
– R-boy had been asking for weeks if we could celebrate the last day of school with this bag of small firecrackers I bought him for his birthday last year. (Yes, I bought it. Don’t ask.) Let’s just say the anticipation level for the amount of entertainment this bag would provide was way out of proportion to the size of the bag. I wasn’t quite sure how to ratchet that excitement down a notch or six.
– R-kids and I didn’t make it home that night until 10ish. By then, I was totally wiped out with a disaster in the kitchen, stacks of bills to pay, no clean laundry and no clear path through the house.
– And, sure, there was no school in the morning for R-kids, but us working moms don’t get a summer vacation. The piles of work on my desk were already calling…
– Oh, and did I mention it’s been a hard week for me? As in, really hard to get through 10 minutes at a time? Yeah, there’s that too.
– Needless to say, unfortunately, my enthusiasm wasn’t matching R-boy’s as he was jumping up and down with the bag of firecrackers, asking me where the lighter was. Especially since –
Oh, yeah, kids…. I forgot. Our lighters died. Yes, both of them. Yes, really. Yes, I’m sure. Well at least we’ve got this box of kitchen matches. I guess fire is fire. And there are lots of matches here. We’ll make do.
Cool! Ok, Mom! Let’s start with these snake things!!!
Hmmmm. For some reason it seems like we shouldn’t do these on the front sidewalk, but I can’t remember why.
Oh, yeah. Now I remember.
Ok, let’s move to the back alley. Oh, there’s no light back here? Or chair? And lots of mosquitoes? No problem. We’ll just sit on the asphalt while I light about 15 matches to get the rest of these snakes to finally catch the flame and start creating an absolute disaster of chemicals and ash all over. Cool!
Cool!! Wow! That took a long time, Mom. And look how many we have left!! Now let’s try these little bottle poppers or whatever they’re called.
Yes! Let’s try those! With my small matches. That keep burning out. And the wick that burns for an inch and then dies, and repeat. And me having no clue what this nasty little bugger is going to do once it actually does light up, and wondering if my neighbors might call the cops or I might blow my hand or face or hair off.
Ok, Mom! We’re standing waaaay back! I can’t WAIT to see what this one does!!!!!
(Long pause while I light and relight the wick that keeps blowing out in the wind, until finally….!)
Well, what the heck? Nothing?? Why didn’t that work?
NO! Don’t touch it R-girl! It might still go offf! Don’t go near it. Let’s try the next one over on the other side of the driveway.
Seriously? That one didn’t work either?! Let’s move way over here and try the third one.
ARGH! NOW WHAT?! This is soooooo annoying! Ugh!!!
Mom? Are you mad at us?
Oh my gosh. No, sweetie, no. I’m not mad at you at all. Yes, I’m frustrated, but it’s not about you. Really. I just don’t understand why people make firecrackers that don’t work?!!! And why don’t they put directions on these things anyway?!!!! And why don’t these matches WORK?!!!! AND……
Ok.
Hey, should we just try the sparklers??
Yay! But first can we make a mini bonfire out of all these matches on the ground?!
NO!!!!!!! I mean, no, honey.
Sweetie.
Honey.
Let’s clean up this mess and go do the sparklers in the front yard.
And that’s the rest of the story. Most of it.
by julie rybarczyk
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