This was the first Fourth of July the kids actually spent with me. None of it worked. And somehow, it was still the first Fourth I've had all three of them for, which is the part that actually mattered.
This was the first Fourth of July the kids actually spent with me. Their dad is a big Fourth of July guy, and our co-parenting arrangement is amenable enough that this has just never been the year—until this year.
I wanted it to be good.
It was not good, but not in a way anyone could have prevented, which is its own kind of lesson.
Leo slept through the morning. Logan had to be at work by 4:30. Rhea was politely unbothered either way, which, at fifteen, is its own form of commentary. We're not the house where their friends are, so there was no Sandlot-style disappearing into the neighborhood until dark—just the four of us deciding, around six, to head to the community park for whatever the town had going on.
We were there for seven minutes before it started pouring.
I had packed Disney ponchos, for reasons I can no longer fully reconstruct, except that I am apparently the kind of mother who packs ponchos in July. And boy, did they earn their keep. We stayed dry, but we still left.
The rain didn't let up until almost 10:30. Our town, rather than reschedule, just ran the fireworks at 11:00 p.m., in weather so misty we couldn't even see them from the house, which in past years has been the good spot.
Part of me felt like, even with all the chaos of Mother Nature, we would be okay and everything would magically come together. Our neighbor usually puts on a display so extravagant that I've even offered to help fund it, just so we could enjoy watching it from our own lawn chairs in our little slice of heaven in the country.
This year, of course, he wasn't even home.
None of it worked. And somehow, it was still the first Fourth I've had all three of them for, which is the part that actually mattered—the part the weather couldn't touch.
At the time, did I absolutely feel like I was failing and had let my kids down? Yeah, I did. And it stung, maybe more than I should've let it.
Leo's baseball season ended the same week, in a tournament played during the worst heat we've had all summer. As someone who can recall playing softball in that type of heat, I made it my mission to think of ways to best support not only Leo, but all the kids, and keep them safe.
I packed frozen rags, Gatorades, and popsicles in coolers filled to the brim with ice that still couldn't keep the popsicles from melting. After the second game of the tournament, I broke down and bought a pop-up shade tent and personal fans. And while I didn't do it, I definitely debated purchasing one of those $500 electric coolers just to make sure the kids had cold drinks.
Needless to say, Leo survived, I am better prepared for next year, and I am definitely grateful the season is done.
The house is mid-transformation on both ends right now. The kitchen is nearly there, with just the big stuff left: the floors, swapping out the stainless steel builder-grade sink for a Kohler enameled cast-iron one, and trying to appease my OCD with a matching appliance suite and cabinet knobs, which I've been more particular about than is probably reasonable.
The bathroom just started. We painted this week, and this weekend is fixtures, possibly new flooring too—which means that, for a while, we'll have a beautiful kitchen and a bathroom you enter at your own risk.
Next weekend, Josh, our kids, and I are driving up to the House on the Rock for his birthday. It's a road trip planned with a very eclectic, weird Americana feel and full American Gods pilgrimage energy, which is exactly the kind of trip that makes sense to us and possibly no one else.
I used to think a good summer meant things went according to plan.
This one has mostly meant packing ponchos anyway, showing up in the bleachers drenched in sweat, and staying present for it all.