Baby, You're A Firework!

Another example of me being the brakes--FIREWORKS! Bok! Bok! Bok! I own my chicken-iness like a badge of honor. I keep my fingers and toes and sit WAY back behind the lines to "Oooh" and "Aaahhh" (usually by myself).

This has always been the case. When we were little, Daddy would give us each a few dollars to purchase our crackling, sparkling, popping booty. Gayla and James II would purchase the very cool "big fireworks" while I would buy $2 in sparklers and pocket the rest of my dinero...I mean really, you used to be able to buy 48 sparklers with $2 and how many flaming sticks of death can a girl really handle in one night (T.W.S.S). I did try to light ten at one time back then, five in each hand to make Pom-Poms. Rah-Rah, Sis, Boom, OWWWWWW! Stop, drop them and run away crying! I'm a bigger weenie than Spanky-dog!

Nevertheless, I married a firework addict and his little mini-me a few years ago, making New Years Eve and 4th of July fireworks a staple like bread and milk. With the burn ban in effect in every town around us, I laid down some law:

1. Everyone wears shoes and socks (NO FLIP FLOPS).
2. All hair longer than your ears is tied back.
3. No more than two people around the staging area (I called it the kitchen).
4. Don't lean your face over the firework being lit.
5. Make sure the lawn and roof are watered down.
6. Keep the running water hose nearby.

All wishes were complied with without a grumble. MyChad even went a step further and set up a line of chairs out of the line of fire. He added a mister and three fans. It made the heat quite bearable. However, I must be a magnet for debris because, much like last year, I was pelted with burning shrapnel more than once. I called it a night soon after and forced myself not to nag them from the safety of the house.

I laughed yesterday when the ABC reporter so seriously called fireworks, "the most hallowed of Independence Day traditions." I don't know about fireworks being holy, venerated and sacred, but I would agree that they are tradition. It was nice to see our 14-year-old, too-cool-for-the-rents daughter laughing and spending quality time with her daddy instead of curled up around her cell phone or laptop. I did my best to keep my nagging to a minimum, only yelling, "THERE ARE TOO MANY COOKS IN THE KITCHEN!" three (more like five) times.

Coming up: Darby asked if she could have a blog...hmmmmmm???