The Fourth of July is quickly becoming one of my favorite holidays.  My husband has always been fond of the holiday, growing up in an adorable little resort town that does America's birthday in a big way.  As a kid, I always remember the holiday as the time of year I was pulled away from my friends and events to go to my Grandpa's house in Kentucky. I did always love visiting with family in Kentucky, but as far as festivities go, a small fireworks show at the house was as exciting as it got.

Tony took a four-day weekend for us to travel up to northern Wisconsin the see friends and relax and my lovely parents watched the girls for two nights.  In the past, when we've gone up north, Tony has been the social coordinator, spending all sort of time on the phone making plans, changing plans, rushing to get where he had promised plans...  I asked him to make an effort to relax over the weekend, not plotting every move as I feel I follow a very consistent schedule everyday with the girls.  I even got to finish a book - something I haven't done in I don't know how long.  Heaven is for Real was a quick read, and I highly recomend it to anyone. 

On Saturday, I kept fixating on someone who had claimed to hit a bear with their car and I was telling Tony I can't believe what a terrible lie that must be and I cannot imagine what that would even look like.  Tony was playing devil's advocate a bit, reminding me that bears were not uncommon in that small town he grew up in.  Though we were raised less than 100 miles apart, I have never seen a bear and as far as I was concerned, no one could ever hit one with a car.

The next morning, we were on our way to pick up the girls.  Luckily, Tony was driving and made a quick manuever to slam on the brakes (something I easily could have failed to do).  When I looked up and ahead, sure enough there was a black bear.  Running across the road.  We almost hit him. 

I am still trying to make sense of this lesson in my head.  Maybe it's time for me to take a step back be less judgmental.  



My favorite memory from my pregnancy with Clara (I don't have many) was the fourth of July last year.  Lucy had just turned two.  The fireworks are done in the park behind our house, and the three of us had just returned home when they started.  From the upstairs window in our hallway, we watched the fireworks.  Lucy was so excited, she kept turning to me and rubbing my 9 month pregnant belly saying, "Did you see that one, Baby?!  Look!  It's fireworks, Baby!!"  Tony and I looked at each other in awe of her.  It's one of those mental snapshots I will never forget. 

This year I was determined to go to the fireworks as a family for Clara to see for the first time.  When I realized she (and Tony) weren't going to last until 10pm, I distracted Lucy to keep her up.  Together, we made an apple pie from scratch.  With our hands we made the dough.  I cut up the apples as Lucy stirred them in sugar.  Making food together is one of my favorite parts of being a mom.  The two of us walked down to the park together with a flannel blanket in hand.  We found a spot on the hill to set up camp and snuggle with our cheese curds and glow-in-the-dark necklaces.  Lucy was so excited with each and every firework ("That one was purple!!  That had a heart in it!  Look at, Mommy, a swirl!!") that she couldn't sit still. 

Yeah, I think this holiday gets better every year.