What We Did because of What They Did

Yesterday my godson had this deadpan post on Facebook: I’ll celebrate my freedom by not celebrating my freedom.

So…you’re getting married? a friend replied.

Neither did we do “much” to celebrate…but what we did do—together, as a family—was, in my most humble of opinions, perfect.

You are free to disagree, of course. It’s a free country! And that’s the whole point.

We started out the day—Cate, the baby and I—by going to Mass at Holy Family. The 9:00 a.m service was packed, as is fitting, because freedom of religion? That’s a big one.

There was a guest priest con-celebrating, and as he started to preach the homily, I heard a very distinctive accent. “He’s a Brit!” I whispered, leaning into Cate, and sure enough, he began with a joke.

“I used to think Father Johnson was the smartest man I knew,” he intoned, “until today, when he asked an Englishman to give the sermon.”

The church roared. The irony, yes, it was delicious.

And then, you know what? We spent the 4th of July at home.

My husband hauled out a ginormous box of fireworks…

…and we proceeded to mark up the driveway with smudgy black stains.

The 5-year-old took awhile to warm up.

Eventually, though, he was waving his sparkler wand with the best of them and shouting “Expecto Patronum!” and “Silencio!”

The silence, alas, was not forthcoming.

The happiness, though, and laughter were.

We ended the day at our city’s firework display, as is the familial tradition, on the lawn outside of Jimmy John’s. Except…that sounds kinda stuffy, doesn’t it? Especially for a gang like ours, whose “familial tradition”  includes fighting over the lawn chairs (there are only two) and trying to snitch the last sip of pop.

It’s a lovely tradition, one we’ve had for years. Yet, to tell you the truth, (don’t tell the kids!) I don’t really care about the fireworks display. What I really love is the downtime beforehand and those are the memories I cherish most—with a couple kids tossing a football here, another three playing tag over there, and my littlest man snuggled up in my lap.

I bury my face into Francis’ downy blonde hair and inhale.

I breathe in the smell of Baby Magic and bug spray.

I breathe out a sigh of relief and of peace.