Cool Mom factor takes a holiday
It usually starts in March. By April, my palms begin to sweat. By Memorial Day, I have broken out in hives. June is ushered in by an ulcer and a Xanax prescription.
I consider myself to be a cool Mom most of the year. On the Motherhood Clue Bus, I not only bought a ticket, but I sit in the back row. But fireworks -- specifically the at-home imploding on your family version -- send my coolness packing right back into a fanny pack looped to my pleated-in-the-front Mom pants. I have no sense of humor about this at all.
My husband -- like every other y-chromosome creature I know --plans our Independence Day destination according to the states with the most liberal roadside fireworks ordinances. It is not unusual for him to do an Expedia search on “Crazy Larry’s.” He sees this as “fun.”
All I see in a box of sparklers are tears from wrist burns. I see every PSA and urban legend with horrific injuries and missing limbs. My maternal instincts and impending sense of doom are the only things exploding at dizzying heights of hysteria for me on the Fourth of July.
Please don’t think I’m always this much of a wet blanket just because I smother my children with one to shield them from a rogue bottle rocket.
I’ll be back to my usual hip self soon enough. On July 5th they can have a sleepover and ice cream for dinner.
My nervous facial twitch should be just about gone by then.