Confession: I love me a grand finale!

Fireworks remind me of sex.


Not just the big bang and the bright lights, but the entire event. The slight dread as you anticipate the hassle of engaging in this activity, the initial discomfort, the sense of disappointment when they begin and are, after-all, only loud bangs, then the growing sense of wonder and, finally, the completely absorbed excitement and awe by the time the grand finale erupts joyously into the night sky.


Yesterday was the Fourth of July. Our Nation’s birthday. And the only holiday, aside from SuperBowl Sunday, that the majority of America agrees to celebrate.


Being an All-American family with good ol’ All-American friends, we celebrated in traditional style. Had the backyard BBQ, the beer, the boys and babies and bikinis. Then the Great Debate: “are we going up to the fireworks?”


Lake Tahoe puts on an amazing fireworks show every 4th, ‘Lights on the Lake’. Only problem is, while I and my friends are Hot Minivan Moms, we are not RICH minivan moms. Thus, we live nowhere near the Lake. In fact, we don’t even live on the mountains between which the Lake is nestled. We live in the Valley, less romantically defined as the desert. The lake is all crystalline waters reflecting an azure sky framed by snow-capped peaks and spearing green pines. The valley is all tacky above-ground pools reflecting a hazy, smog-filled sky framed by brown sandy dirt and stout sagebrush.


Thus, going to the fireworks involves getting from the Valley to the Lake. An apt metaphor would be Adam and Eve trying to bust back IN to the Garden of Eden. Or the heathens trying to breach the walls to the Forbidden City. You get the idea.


Actually, it only requires a 20 minute drive up a one-lane, twisted, super-graded mountain highway behind semi-trucks, tourists who are afraid of turns and crazy-ass road bikers pedaling laboriously up a road meant only for non-human-powered vehicles (really, who are these fitness-obsessed fucks? I like a bike-ride too…to the local 7-11 for a Slurpee. Maybe on a nice bike-path to a beach and a Rum-Runner. Translation: I only ride a bike long distances if there is a tasty treat at the end!)


But here’s the thing. Hellish mountain passes aside, there is no way we can actually skip the fireworks. Fireworks are crack to kids. I don’t know why. I actually am pretty sure kids don’t really like fireworks. They’re loud and bright and crowded and occur way, way past bedtime. I think kids just like the idea of fireworks. Big explosions up in the sky, the titillating possibility that maybe something, or someone, else will explode.


And I think they like the fact that it’s such a grand pain in the ass for their parents.


Whatever the reason, it’s just not worth the foreverness of whining and complaining to MISS the fireworks. So, despite half-hearted bribes and tough talk amongst the parents, we end up making the trek up the mountain to see the fireworks every year.


Last night was no different. Loaded up the minivan with sunburned, over-tired children, blankets, water, cupcakes and enough glow-sticks, glow-necklaces and glow-bracelets to ensure that our children looked like walking Las Vegas casino signs.


Drove to the Lake. Got pulled over by Highway Patrol. Same guy managed to pull over all 3 minivans carrying cop wives. The few cops amongst us got us out of the tickets. Sad quota day for NHP-guy.


Found a parking spot. Unloaded cranky, over-excited kids. Played chicken with dangerous mountain highway and kids and wagons full of crap. Found a ‘great’ spot…half swamp, half hill, all dirt and pine needles…to set up ‘camp’.


Proceeded to wait.


And wait.


And wait.


Kids got cranky. Picked fights over the nine million glowy-things. Annoyed all the parents. Took a fieldtrip to the bathroom. Came back. Consumed cupcakes. Kids got sugar-happy and ran around like frantically glowing lightning bugs.


Still waiting.


Kids sugar-crash. Crawl into blankets and laps. Whine that it’s late and they’re tired and when will the fireworks start?


Parents are cranky and tired and whiney and when will the fireworks start?


We lose 2 kids in the bushes. Three little girls try to perfect the pee-squat.


We find the kids. The girls pee on their shoes.


Everyone wonders why the hell we thought this would be fun.


And then…a sizzle. Just a little pop. A solitary flare spears up into the dark sky, explodes in a dignified poof and disintegrates elegantly to the first strains of the National Anthem.


The kids stop whining and settle into laps. The parents breath deep sighs of relief, shift heavy children, and gaze upwards at the heavens.


The music swells, the lights dance. We ooh and ahh and are transported away from the cold and the sunburn and the mosquitoes and the to-lists marching through our brains. We sit, transfixed, and allow the booms, the pops, the cascades and the colors and the music and the joy overtake us.


I have the errant thought that fireworks look a lot like sperm as they climb into the sky.


Jennifer covers her ears to the booms. Kathleen stares in childhood wonder. Stuart puts his warm hand on my cheek.


And together we all forget about laundry and wars and bills and grudges and who ate the last pink cupcake and who broke vital promises and mosquito bites and illness and all the cares, big and small, and simply allow ourselves to be transported by the fireworks exploding in a star-studded sky over a fathomless black lake framed by eager American faces and grateful patriots.