My husband bought a bunch of fireworks back in 1999, intending to celebrate the arrival of 2000 in style. I can't remember why I wasn't a supportive wife when it came to bombs bursting in air . . . wait . . . it's coming back to me . . . now I remember. We had a toddler who wasn't even 2 years old and I was not about to let her anywhere near flames. I also was pregnant with our second child, so there was no way I could stay up until midnight to ring in the new year, even if I wasn't a big grouch who refused to stand out in the freezing cold waving a sparkler while my toddler's hair caught on fire.
My sad husband packed the fireworks away with the hopes that he might be able to use them the following 4th of July. That holiday passed by unnoticed—our baby had just arrived, so I'm sure we were walking around in a fog of sleep deprivation—and one year melted into the next, with that forgotten bin of glorious fireworks growing older and lonelier out in the garage. Ten long years crawled by. Would their ancient incendiary devices even work any more? My husband was determined to find out last night.
Oh, yeah, baby!
My dad is so cool!
He lets me play with sparklers!
What's wrong, Mommy? Your face looks all tense and white.
Dinner last night: baked potatoes with Tex Mex topping