The parade and party were the best they’ve ever been, the weather was as 4th of Julysy as it could be, and our blanket was still holding its place down by the lake, but the girls couldn’t tolerate the spectacular BOOMS.
Before the first round of rockets was done we were pushing our way past celebratory crowds and lugging our terrified girls up the steep hill and away towards home. Mike went first, all of Azy’s three years curled whimpering into his chest, her feet pulled up and trembling. A minute later I followed heaving the wagon, Ivy, blankets, left over smiles. I opened the front door with the very last CRACK.
At ten-thirty we tucked them in.
Mike has jury duty today, he was gone before we slunk out of bed. The rest of us were crabby, restless, fighting over rocks and balls and Elmer’s Glue. Coffee didn’t help me nor did playing outside ease the girls’ tension. Ivy nabbed Azy’s purple car and Azy howled. “What are we going to do?” I snapped, “How are we going to get through today?”
Ivy turned a treasure rock in her hand, looked down and away from me. Azy ran off through the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, back through the kitchen making the round-about complete. Ivy promised sharing and kindness again, again, again. “Then show, don’t tell,” I said.
And there I was, mixing the mother and the writer up again, sloshing it all up in the big, messy paint bucket that is me.
We’re taking our quiet time now, pushing our reset buttons and planning for a better afternoon.
Have you found yourself there, maybe not the mother, but the writer or other self peaking out trying to save face at inappropriate times?