Teresa and I wanted to run the 10k this morning, but our little Aspen woke up with a fever. Though when she started feeling better, we dropped off the kids at Grandma’s house and ran along the parade route as the parade was going. It was actually more fun than the race usually is to be a part of all the hubub. This might become a new tradition.
I’ve always had a notoriously bad throwing arm. But if there’s a chance that a projectile hurled from my fingers, such as a water balloon, could land itself against, I don’t know, the ear of a defenseless eight-year-old girl, not only is my aim impeccable, but suddenly I have the force of a major league pitcher. Then, as that water balloon guides itself to the target of greatest damage like a heat seeking missile, I find myself watching in slow motion, questioning why it’s always been my fate to make little girls cry. Oh, the woes of the physically awkward.
Tonight was strangely reminiscent of last year’s Independence Day. We were in the same parking lot, where fireworks were exploding all around us, and my now four-year-old Ariah was wailing from the horror of it all, while my now two-year-old Aspen took it all in without reservations. Though this year marked a new level of absurdity for the State of Utah. It being the second year since the legalization of bottle rockets, the things were going off everywhere. I mean everywhere. In every neighborhood, on all sides of us, things were exploding, making one feel as if they were under attack. After an hour or so of this craziness, our family had no reservations in retreating.