Ah, the Fourth of July. That magical American holiday where we celebrate our independence by feeding our kids enough sugar to give a hummingbird heart palpitations and then hand them flaming sticks and tiny explosives to chase each other around the yard. God bless the USA.
Now, every family has their own traditions. Some go to parades. Some have cookouts. Some set off fireworks responsibly, at a safe distance, while everyone wears eye protection and a smug expression of adult competency.
We are not that family.
We are the family where things always start off wholesome and picturesque—flag cupcakes, patriotic playlists, Jo handing out watermelon slices like she’s hosting a lifestyle segment on Good Morning America—and then somewhere around dusk, things take a hard left turn into Lord of the Flies: Stars & Stripes Edition.
This particular year, we had gathered the family in the In-Laws driveway for a traditional fireworks display—which is really just a collaborative dad effort lighting things on fire while yelling “BACK UP!” at children who have zero concept of personal safety or common sense. Among our arsenal were a few dozen boxes of sparklers, because those feel just safe enough for kids. You know, like swords, but with the added bonus of flame and molten metal flakes that shoot out at you!
Now enter Logan. Sweet, sneaky, future demolition expert Logan. At the time, maybe six or seven. Old enough to understand instructions. Young enough to pretend he forgot them the second chaos presented itself.
I handed him a lit sparkler and gave the usual dad lecture: “Buddy, this is fun, but you don’t point it at people. No swinging. No dueling. This is a light show, not a lightsaber. Understand?”
He nodded seriously, the way kids do when they absolutely do not understand but are just trying to get the grown-up to stop talking. Then he looked at the sparkler. And then—oh, I saw it. That look. The one every parent knows. The slow, creeping grin that starts in the corner of their mouth like a villain about to monologue. The gleam in the eye. The shift in posture from trustworthy child to goblin with a mission.
Before I could utter a single word of protest, Logan whipped the sparkler in a wide arc like Excalibur itself and took off screaming “FREEDOM!” while charging Jo and her sister like a tiny, fire-wielding revolutionary war hero.
Jo let out a scream that could peel paint off a battleship and took off across the yard, sandals flopping, sister screaming right behind her. Logan was cackling, sparkler raised like he was leading a cavalry charge. Every time Jo looked back, he’d wave the sparkler a little and shout something vaguely patriotic. I am pretty sure I heard him yell, “’MERICA!” at one point.
I tried to run after him… (you believe me, right?) But I was doubled over laughing, and also slightly worried that if I intervened, I might get sparkler’d myself. The good news is, he eventually ran out of sparkler juice. The bad news is, now he knows where we keep the lighters.
Later that night, as the real fireworks boomed in the sky and the kids collapsed into sticky, sunburned heaps of giggles, I looked at Jo—still slightly singed, soul frizzed out from the trauma—and said, “Hey, at least no one ended up in the ER.”
She just narrowed her eyes and said, “Next year, we’re only giving him a glow stick.”
Happy Fourth of July from the Olde Dominion. May your watermelon be cold, your sparklers properly aimed, and your children only moderately unhinged.
hope todays a good one,
-austininva
