Fire works. Just add them to that depressing list of things that are completely, absolutely awesome until you have kids.
Last night I was sitting in bed catching up on the news — ok, fine, I was catching up on There Goes the Motherhood (which – are those women nuts or am I living in another universe?). Seth was putting Matty to sleep and Abbott was peacefully snoozing in his crib like the independent adult he is. Everything was awesome until I heard a strange sound. At first I thought it was rain, it was initially subtle, not too loud but definitely not the normal rain sound. I muted the TV and then a GIANT wave of oh-my-fucking-god-please-nooooo came over me. I quickly did my best to figure out what month it is (because that’s your brain on parenthood) and threw myself back on the bed all dramatically (because that’s your life with a toddler). All I could see was red. My mind was reeling through all of the reasons firework season is the absolute worst and how pissed I was going to be if either of my children woke up.
Then the noise escalated. The giant booms were so loud I swear my windows vibrated. It was non-stop. I laid as still as possible just staring at the baby monitor (as if me not moving might make the fireworks less obvious to the baby??). Then, there was movement. I quietly strung together the longest string of expletives I’ve probably ever strung.
I did this until Abbott’s movement slowed and he was once again in a peaceful slumber. BUT HOLY SHIT. I jumped out of bed to catch the end of the finale and curse all the GD baseball games, their fans and their firework-loving asses. Don’t they know there are babies in this city? And parents who need those babies to sleep!?! I MEAN, COME ON! And not only that, fireworks are fucking terrifying you guys. I mean, some dude in the NFL who’s (sort of) an adult just lost his finger due to a firework mishap, and yet little Joe Yoohoo down the street and all his lil homies can get their paws on a box full of fireworks faster than I can get my ass up a flight of stairs. That’s not right. Because you know what little Joe Yoohoo and his lil’ homies will do with that box of fireworks (barring any god forsaken injuries)? They’ll set them off whenever and wherever their little hearts desire – which is usually right outside my house and at all hours of the night long past the fourth of July (which we ALL know is the cut off).
For the love of God, TEACH YOUR CHILDREN THE CUT OFF. And if you’re guilty, sweet Jesus, teach yourself the GD cutoff and take note – karma is a bitch.
Once such a glorious part of some of my favorite drunken nights, now just sitting pretty amongst my top-five biggest fears in life.
RIP my inner Katy Perry.