I often play the game of imagining myself living at different places in history.  This morning--and on the morning of many of the holidays devoted to remembering historical sacrifices--I imagined myself a Revolutionary War soldier, dying on a battlefield.  

If I were that soldier, I would be thinking of my family, of course.  But--imagining that I somehow knew my cause would eventually win out and someday there would be a holiday to celebrate my heroism--I think I would want my children's children's children to spend that holiday celebrating.  A few serious moments would be fine, but mostly I would want them to spend time with loved ones, enjoy each other's company, and maybe eat some good food.  I think that even back then people must've realized that those are the real things worth fighting and dying for.

So today, we did just that.

The Kid was not impressed with fireworks that pop and sparkle, but he loved "moke balls", and we eventually brought him around to the little poppers that you throw from your hand.  With a father like his (read: one who likes to blow stuff up), I expect this will only be a temporary thing, so I'm going to enjoy the quiet of a tuckered-out, early-in-bed baby instead of lamenting the unused fireworks on our back porch.  Perhaps I'll make a pair of horse feathers for Sweet Husband and I, and see if I can't tempt him out to try and watch the city fireworks from our backyard in an hour or so?