Nothing says holiday like meltdowns and tears

Looking back I take all the blame.  I really should have known better.  We had tried fireworks when my youngest was a toddler and it did not go well.  For the last five years fireworks have been something that we watched on TV or saw go off in our neighborhood.  But this year, I really wanted to feel that sense of amazement.  I wanted to share with my children the traditions I was raised with.  So I convinced my husband, warned the kids, and packed a blanket.  Bryce was so excited he didn't stop talking or moving for the hour and a half before it was time to go.  My brain was already vibrating with stress but I was determined.  At 8:15 I herded the boys into the car.  The first sign of resistance came before we left the driveway.  Ryan had his blanket out and was sucking his thumb. 

Ignoring the constant talking from Bryce, Ryan curling into the corner of the car and my husband's obvious reluctance, I told myself, "It will be fine.  They'll chill out."  I had chosen the local ballpark wrongly thinking that the parking lot further down the street would be a quiet place to see them from a distance.  Apparently about 1,000 other people thought the same thing.  We had to move across the street and search for parking among the throngs. 

We parked and Bryce and I jumped out.  Ryan climbed into the trunk and curled into a ball.  By this time I was unaccountably frustrated and stomped off with my youngest to stake out a spot.  My husband stayed with Ryan to calm him down.  Spreading out the blanket, I sat down in a huff.  Bryce sat down next to me...almost.  Actually, he sat on his knees, then lay on his stomach, then crossed his legs, then got up to get the water bottle, then...well, you get the point.  The fireworks had started but Bryce had wandered off to find my husband.  I followed him with all our stuff back toward the car where we found Ryan curled up and rocking on his dad's lap in a quiet patch of grass out of sight of the fireworks.  Brimming with frustration I snapped to my husband that we should just go home.  Right then Bryce decides he needs to go to the bathroom.  Before either of us realizes what he is doing, he has started to pee in the bushes on the side of the industrial building we are near.  In clear view of crowds and security cameras.

We packed up the kids and the stuff and headed home.  My husband was philosophical about it all.  I, on the other hand, cried most of the way home.  What was wrong with me?  What had I been thinking setting my children up for failure like that? 

I was grieving.  Again.

I was brought up on fireworks for the 4th of July.  I have memories of going to an outdoor pavilion, suffering through "boring" music played by a live orchestra and then reclining on a blanket with my family oohing and aahing over the bombs bursting high.  I didn't appreciate it at the time, but those fireworks make up a large part of my expectations for a happy Independence Day.  I didn't realize how deeply these memories were planted in my psyche until our 4th of July debacle.  Just like when the boys were diagnosed, when we had to hospitalize Bryce, when Bryce was taken out of regular education and so many other moments, I was giving up another dream.  And it hurt.

My children will never lay on the grass and see the majesty of live fireworks and that just sucks!  What doesn't suck is that they won't miss it.  You can't miss what isn't important to you.  You can't miss something that makes you miserable.  So, I put on my big girl panties and dried my tears and decided that next year we will be buying fireworks.  The kind that isn't loud and can be done right in our comfort zone - our driveway.