My daughter S said her first word on 4th of July. The Hub and his brothers were setting off small (Georgia legal grade) fireworks in the front yard. He lit a little sparkler and walked by S, who was in my arms. She called out "Dada" and reached for the sparkler. Even though she said dada before she said mama, I was still excited. When S was two years old, I took her to the our town's firework show. The Hub was working the night shift at an emergency animal clinic, so S and I met up with my brother in law and his family. We found a parking space about a 1/2 mile away from the court house lawn. S and I walked hand in hand through the winding streets, people watching, and talking about how excited we both were about seeing some fireworks.
Once the sun set, S and I sat on our blanket and stared into the sky. BOOM! We both jumped, but then, the first explosion always makes me jump. BOOM! S looked around at the crowd. BOOM! S looked back at me. I looked down and noticed an odd expression on her face. If she had a better grasp of the language, I'm sure she would have said:
What the holy hell is going on?! Do you people not see the massive fire balls exploding right over our heads? Why are you just sitting here?! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!S jumped out of my lap, grabbed the blanket and yelled, "We go now!" I laughed a bit and said, "Baby, the show is still going on. Don't be scared. It is pretty!" S put on her shoes. "We go home, now. Let's get out of here!" S started walking away from me with such determination, that I had no choice but grab our stuff and follow her. S, fists clenched, moved as fast as her little legs could carry her. Every time another firework exploded in the sky, she picked up speed. S never once looked back. I had to sprint to catch up to her. I grabbed her hand and she lead me back to our car. She knew exactly where we had parked. She hopped in the car and buckled her own seat belt on the first attempt. She did not relax until we pulled into our driveway. I looked back at her and said, "Okay. We're home." She let out a huge sigh and said, "I don't like fireworks. Never again."
S eventually got over her fear of fireworks. (There's an actual name for the fear of fireworks. It's called Kovtapyroergasoiphobia. See, you learned something new today.) We've seen a few firework shows since then, but she sticks her fingers in her ears and jumps with each explosion. B, on the other hand, loves fireworks... almost as much as I do. This year, we're lighting some sparklers and little noise makers in our front yard. S is perfectly fine with that.