Independence Day for Crochety Parents

When did I become a grumpy old lady?  When I gave birth to a darling little angel whose sleep is easily disrupted by loud, booming noises in the next yard over.

Let me explain.  Before we had the little angel, we lived in a mostly Hispanic community in Midtown. I don't know if this is a generalization or a neighborhood-specific stereotype, but the folks in our old neighborhood liked their fireworks.  DAMN, did they like their fireworks. I've never seen anything like it.  I think they must have mortgaged one of the houses in order to buy them all - it was a four-hour extravaganza that left the entire side street so hazy you could barely see your hand in front of your face, and for once I am not exaggerating.

We thought it was great.

Then we moved to this neighborhood, which is tame, tame, tame compared to the fiesta we left in Midtown.  However, a few bottlerockets and M-80s have been known to grace our streets (and this morning, I found evidence of them in my yard, little bastards).  We still didn't care, until last fourth when the little angel was about three months old and trying to sleep just as the going was getting good.  "Oh, it'll be better next year," we said to each other.  "She'll be older then."

Fast forward to last night. Yes, she is older. She is also WORSE now about loud noises.  She used to peacefully nap right next to a loaded vacuum cleaner, and now she breaks into tears at the mere sight of my hairdryer.  So it was with trepidation that I cranked up her window unit air conditioner and her air cleaner (read: noise machine) as I backed out her bedroom door at 8:15 p.m., the first blast of the night echoing in my ears.

Fortunately, there was enough white noise in that room to rival a wind tunnel. We still sat on our front porch and glowered at the pirates next door.

"If they wake her up, I'm going to carry her over there so they can listen to her cry," I said, throwing back my third glass of wine for the night (hey, it was a national holiday, and we were sitting around on our own porch with no fireworks).

"It won't do any good to call the police," said my equally grumpy husband.  "They better not shoot them in our yard again."

But of COURSE they shot them in our yard, because we yelled at them last year. They are preteens. This is what they live for.  This is better than every other holiday rolled into one - this is a chance to lose a finger or shoot out an eye - the stuff that tween dreams are made of.

We survived.  I can't wait until the little angel is old enough to aim for their yard. We'll see what they are made of then.