The pyromaniacs are out in force. The neighbors are trying to burn down the house by launching flaming barrels of pyrotechnics into the sky, each launch beating the record set by previous launches. I find myself continuously checking our home-owners’ insurance just in case our house spontaneously bursts into flames. The kids can’t sleep, and in fact have been asking for the past 24 hours to blow things up. The dog is doped up on doggie Xanax. Yep, all signs that the 4th of July has arrived.
Aside from being tempted to dip into the dog’s Xanax supply myself, I feel like the holiday went surprisingly well. There were no major injuries or burns, and the boys and I had a great time out at Mom’s local church picnic slash light-things-on-fire festival.
I was quickly reminded that 5-year-old boys can be friends with anyone. They don’t have to have known you for long. Jordan latched onto this one poor kid and stalked him mercilessly throughout the evening, declaring at random intervals, “You my friend” as he chased him through the grass and weeds and dirt and rocks and oh-ma-gawd-did-I-even-mention-how-dirty-my-kids-were-when-we-got-home?!
I also learned that those little glow-in-the-dark necklaces are handily converted into nighttime swords if you simply refrain from connecting them into a circle shape. Boys like swords WAY better than little glowy necklaces, by the way. Just sayin’.
I’m pretty sure I yelled something like, “Don’t pick up the flaming, glowing, fireball parachute!” like 500 gazillion times, yet every time a flaming fireball parachute was launched in our direction, whose kids ran to pick it up? Oh yeah, mine. Because, clearly my kids’ hands are impervious to flaming fireballs, and their super-powers will protect them from fire and sparks and all that crap, so who cares what Mom says, because, “Pfft, what does she know anyway? Dude, that’s a PARACHUTE!”
So at around 10:30 last night, I carted two very sleepy, very DIRTY boys home in the car. I think they made it about 30 seconds before they fell asleep, which made for quite a pleasant bedtime routine when we got home, if I do say so myself. I took their shoes off, noticed that there was actually a layer of mud-ish dirt CAKED to the bottoms of their feet and in between their toes and quickly weighed the benefits of giving them a midnight bath versus the downside of the crying fit that would probably ensue. And what did Mom of the Year do, you guys? You guessed it. I ever-so-gently scraped off as much of the dirt as I could, vowed to give them a double bath and wash their sheets today, and then I tucked their grumpy little butts into bed.
I then got Druggy McDoperson the dog out of his crate so that he could do his business, and amazingly enough, he was not even interested in the fact that the neighbors were still acting like terrorists and trying to fire bomb our house. I totally need to ask my doctor for some doggie Xanax. That is some gooood stuff!