Ryan was off at one so we had a simple morning at home and then celebrated the day with all kinds of exciting family time once the girls were awake from their naps.
That same old quilted 4th of July dress still fit her as a shirt, barely. The baby wore the red, white & blue Coca Cola onesie my brother got on a trip to Vegas when I was pregnant with the first. Our boy wore his beloved blue Carharrt shirt with the red & white Bronco on it, and the Spiderman hat he excitedly noticed was also red, white and blue.
Burgers. Watermelon. Ice cream in a gluten free cone.
Two little faces anxiously pressed against the window, updating us every few minutes on how much further down the sun has fallen.
A twilight stroller walk, with camping chairs sticking out of the blessedly massive basket underneath, where we stop every few minutes to watch yet another neighbor light a few aerials.
Setting up our spot at the park where we learn that a few neighbors get together and collect donations each year to put on a fireworks show worth thousands of dollars. Sitting so close they light up the sky above us and charred cardboard casings rain down on us. The smell. The crowd clapping and cheering. Somebody singing America the Beautiful. Missing half the show because I can’t stop staring at all three of my babies’ enamored faces, tears in my eyes.