Short blog post for today...
As I look back on our weekend activities, I am left pondering what blowing stuff up has to do with freedom? Is it a reminder to us of the battles that were fought (you know, cannon fire and all that)?
Do the colors of the burst symbolize anything? When did it start to be synonymous with our Fourth of July celebration?
These are largely rhetorical questions. I've decided after the weekend that there must be something hard-wired in the male genetics that leans toward pyromania. That coupled with the fact that by the time you get home from the local Freedom Festivities, it is damn near midnight and you are so exhausted that any bit of inhibition was long ago lost.
I can guarantee you, if my husband came across me giving our son a close-up and personal lesson on flambe, he'd be irate. And yet, when I come out of grandma's house and see my son leaning over a bottle rocket as it's being lit, I have to pause and ask myself, what part of that is a good idea?
We all survived our weekend...all fingers intact, no burns. And my son has a happy memory of his Fourth of July. Best of all...at least what I keep reminding myself...as long as he was giddy about blowing stuff up, he didn't whine and beg to play his cousin's Wii.
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