There’s a moment beyond the chaos.
It’s beyond the overflowing stroller of stuff, the contraband cooler of beer and the shouts of a nervous mother trying to keep her almost 3 year old from darting into traffic.
It’s past the stress of balancing keeping the children safe in a giant crowd of people and letting them dig their toes in the grass, eat too much sugar and do exactly what kids are supposed to do.
It’s nearly overshadowed by the wails of an overtired 13 month old who reaches her limit a mere minutes before the penultimate moment.
But then the crowd goes quiet and the lights fade to black.
The fireworks start.
The previously cranky baby is skeptical about the loud noises but won over by the shiny lights filling the sky above her. She crawls into my lap, leans back and watches the show while I kiss her forehead.
Her precocious sister climbs into her father’s lap next to me shouting “boom, boom” along with each new firework in the sky.
It’s in those small moments, that last only for the briefest of times that I’m just in awe of my family and the love I have for them.
It won’t be long before the little blonde is running around asking to go to the potty right before the finale and the baby will yet again lose her cool because it’s hours past her bedtime, but it doesn’t matter.
We made a memory and it’s everything I hoped for when I dreamed about having children.
It’s parenthood at it’s finest and I’m totally on board for the ride.
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