We got over five inches of rain last night and lightning close enough that we made the kids sleep downstairs. Still, somehow there was a little window of clearing that lasted just long enough for the nearby fireworks show. If that's not proof of a benevolent creator, I don't know what is.
In four days, the firework tents will finally open. There's a tiny window of time when it's legal in Omaha to buy ridiculously strong explosives and blow them up in your driveway. It's the best thing about living here. I love it so much. I didn't always, mostly because I'm the sort of person who imagines the worst case scenario and then can't settle the fuck back down. Fireworks have a lot of worst-case potential, but still, I just love them.
My neighbor has already been forwarding me the fliers so we can plan our shopping trips. The rest of the year, she's this very sane and lovely person. When the boys were little, they used to show up at her back door and ask to make cookies because god knows, their mother wasn't going to do it. She always said yes. But come July? She's saying things like, "What if we tied these fuses together?" and her poor husband shakes his head and goes inside.
My husband's job is to contain the chaos. He makes everyone wear safety goggles and keeps a big bucket of water close by. He also does most of the lighting because he's convinced I'm going to set myself on fire. I'm not saying he's wrong. This is probably a good call on his part. Right now he's trying to contain the chaos in advance. We're having lots of conversations about schedules and budgets, as in "how many nights are you planning to do this?" and "just how much are you thinking you're going to spend?" I don't know what he's imagining as his upper limit, but whatever it is, he should triple it.