I had a bad dream the other night.
We all have our share of bad dreams from time to time, but this one was especially upsetting.
Usually mine are stupid, like I’m in an argument with someone that seems real, or my teeth are falling out. I have some real tooth anxieties, apparently. One night I dreamed I was back in high school, stuck with a math class I hadn’t attended all semester and a final exam coming up. Guess who got an F and couldn’t graduate? This gal.
My dreams are terrifying, y’all.
In this dream, I was walking with Jamin, enjoying the views and we were in a garden. Suddenly, Jamin was all elderly and stuff. Grey thinned hair, stooped over, could barely shuffle, and frail.
I think it’s important to say elderly because it sounds nicer than old. But you get my drift. I was caring for him, and he could barely walk. Then I looked down, and I was old. There we were. Elderly and shuffling in the garden of life together. Metaphors abound much? My subconscious is so creative, y’all.
I remember feeling sad because suddenly our children were grown and they were gone. Doing their own thing in life. I wasn’t sad because they were gone. The part that bothered me the most was that I’d missed it.
But let me back up. Because the irony isn’t lost on me, that the night before, Jamin and I had gotten into an argument. And it wasn’t so much an argument as harsh reprimanding. But I’ll move forward and let you read all about it: It was the 4th of July. There were fireworks and sparklers and magical celebrations in the air. Until there wasn’t.
One of our friends had purchased a new “prototype” firework at the fireworks tent down the road. I’m picturing a guy in a red and white striped tent with a red and white striped jacket and a navy top hat Lincoln would envy, complete with with sparkly teeth. He’s brandishing the world’s first super exploding wonderland fabulosity of fireworks. Cue stars in all of our eyes.
This was the firework of all fireworks to create memories for our children.
Disclaimer: I do enjoy a little unbridled revelry every now and then, and we are allowed to {safely} shoot fireworks in our neighborhood. We don’t go over the top, we aren’t breaking the law, and we do so on the one night of celebration a year by 8:00. Why? Because it’s a tradition where we create memories for our children. I don’t need anyone at the end of this saying, “You got what you deserved, sinner!” Angry mob torches aren’t welcome here. Thank you for dousing them.
My friend and I were standing near the porch, talking to our sons about ice cream while the dads safely dispensed said fireworks. We, and the rest of the children were standing a very safe distance back. When a firework from the super duper special “prototype” package sold by the man in the striped jacket and sparkling teeth, whizzed by us, just missing our children. Suddenly, it felt very national lampoons family fireworks level of idiocy. I have a penchant for anxiety, and this singular event didn’t do me any favors. My husband {classic Enneagram 7} and our friend were giving off a very hardcore Clark Griswold vibe.
#dadlifesohard
Said rogue firework was no tiny firecracker. It somehow managed to wedge itself under our plants crate on our porch, and explode into a million colorful pieces. Smoke and chaos, our unbridled redneck joy for ‘Murica, quickly transformed into terror everywhere. It was an insane moment that if we’d been filming, would definitely end up on some viral they-almost-died-You-Tube-round-up.
Two things happened at once. 1. We were deaf. 2. Our children were crying. It wasn’t lost on us how frightening that was, and a very sobering reminder that accidents happen. {Satan’s garden stool, anyone? This isn’t our first rodeo.} Somehow, everyone escaped injury.
Once we’d recovered from the shock, we stuck with the safer route of sparklers. That’s more my speed, anyway. It was about fifteen minutes later that I went from shock to anger, when I processed what could have happened. The proverbial straw on the camel’s back was that our porch now has shrapnel burns all over the roof. Permanent shrapnel burns that will have to be replaced, on my pretty haint blue siding. Parts of it are even cracked. It was a big deal.
Shrapnel that could have hit our children.
It was a random accident. Looking back, I’m pretty sure if the firework hadn’t shot under that tiny crack of the flower crate, it would have been a bigger explosion. But guess who caught the brunt of my anger? Jamin. I’m not saying I was right to be angry. I’m not saying I was wrong, either. I’m just saying Clark Griswold felt a little sheepish. Cue the stereotypical husband just wants to have fun and create memories for his children on the fourth, with his stereotypical wife who wants safety and peace and is a tad uppity when she gets to wear her “I told you so” look. While she’s so grateful her children are okay, she’s kind of angry that it happened in the first place. Because it shouldn’t have.
We were laughing at it afterwards, but it took us a minute to recover.
And then I had my terrible elderly dream. So I woke up this morning, with a little bit of perspective.
Sometimes, I struggle a lot as a working mom. To create memories and find peace where we are in every phase with our children. I can’t live in fear, or guilt, because I hear it only gets better with time and I believe that. I can’t be sad that our children are growing up, because that’s what they’re supposed to do. If they make it to adulthood and thrive, job well done. ::Pats self on back::
We’re constantly struggling in this world of “are we enough” as humans and as parents. We’re always striving to accomplish and be more. I struggle to live in the present, yet somehow if we’re not careful, it feels like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives.
No, I couldn’t resist. Yes, we all scheduled our classes in college so we could watch. Wait. Wasn’t I just in college?
But really, the special moments? Those memories? The things that mean the most? They’re in the imperfect and the absolutely ordinary. In the spilled breakfast cereal that my dogs immediately run to clean up. In my children’s laughter when they make a joke because we’re raising funny humans. Even in the exploding firework where we created shrapnel-filled memories for our children. These are the stories they’ll tell their spouses when we gather around the dinner table. “Remember that one year Dad lit the firework and it fell over and we all almost died?! Good times.”
Or something like that.
My penchant for drama with a side of humor, is trying to say that even the sucky moments, they still hold their own form of special. It’s okay to take a step back, take a deep breath, and laugh. Even in the imperfect moments. Especially in the imperfect ones.
Because most of the time, as long as we’re striving to do our very best, we are enough. That nightmare was silly. When I do look back and I am elderly, shuffling around with Clark Griswold, I’ll know we had our special moments in the every day. And hopefully I was able to recognize them, even when I’m angry.
So here’s to the imperfect, the magic in the plain old present, and here’s to you, Clark Griswold.
Thank you for the memories.
Exploding porches and all.
Shannon says
Thank you so much for sharing this today. You had me laughing and it’s just what I needed. And for the record, we love fireworks too. ❤️
Erin says
Oh my gosh this is so funny and real – I love how you always bring it back around to reality. Thank you. Love it! Ps my husband is also Clark Griswold 😂
Mel says
The teeth falling out, and the math class that you didn’t attend all semester? Me too.