JULY 4: PopPop’s colleague had invited us to the reserved space in Quantico where she had planted her big camper to watch the fireworks and enjoy a cookout. We rode to the location with the grands in the front of the car and in the back was Ya fighting to escape his car seat while Chi and I faught to keep him in it.
Chi started in a funk. There might not be anyone her age to hang out with at the cook out.
It took a lot to coax a smile from her…
And the cheer did not stay long, so we traveled to the camp ground’s playground to wait out the dinner preparations.
That playground? Yuck. It was a big, sand and dirt filled plot with kids already gathering up mounds of dirt into buckets to send down the already filthy slide. I baulked at the sight and warned my kids to stay off that equipment. I admit that I was warned that Lunga Park had dirt, but I don’t think I mentally prepared for how dirty my kids would happily get.
And when I protested about the dingy state of Chi’s white shirt after only moments at the playground, she stormed away in protest of my authority. I, of course, was chastised for not letting kids be kids by Oma, who hustled away to appease Chi.
Ya refused to leave as quickly, but when I finally dragged him back to the location of our host’s camper, he was not a happy camper.
He found more dirt – this time wet – to play in.
Chi met some would-be fisher-kids who had already run out of bait and were then using cheese on their lures to coax fish to them. The fish stole the cheese, but remained unhooked. One fisher decided to use a plastic cup to catch the abundant water dwellers and Chi was totally loving watching the activity on the dock.
When dinner was finally cooked, we had a feast fireside. Then Chi toasted marshmallows to too sweet gooeyness. It turns out that catching them on fire is exciting fun.
Finally, at 9:15 p.m., when the bugs outnumbered the guests six to one, the light show began. Fireworks (or hots, as Ya remarked) were not little man’s favorite. In fact, he spent the entire 20 minute spectacle clutching Oma tightly, head tucked in between the crook of her arm and her shoulder, exposed ear covered with his hand. He wanted nothing to do with the hoopla.