Fireworks.

After being dormant for nearly a month, I have made the decision to rejoin society.

I made one of my cherubs join me for my morning errands, and another join me for my afternoon ones.

Seeing that it is America's birthday, I wore my red white and blue shorts and a sleeveless shirt with a shark on it that said Ahhhh Merica.

I am classy like that.

My daughter was not only not impressed with my outfit, but mortified when she noticed a classmate in the store.

She went into one aisle while I looked for other stuff.

Divide and conquer.

But before that, I made the announcement out loud, that we were not related, and that I clearly did not know her.

A few people overheard and smiled.

Being a mom is so awesome sometimes.

Anyways...

She had the cart, I had my arms.

I noticed a variety pack of fireworks and grabbed them.

Once she ran into me after a phone call to locate me no less, she witnessed me with my outfit (I hadn't changed much to her chagrin); and saw the huge pack of fireworks under one arm.

She immediately said, "oh heck no!"

I audibly said, clearly you are an AmeriCANT.

I don't know what kids wouldn't want to have their own fireworks display.

Oh wait yes I do, apparently mine.

That being said, I did wake up this morning with a pretty substantial gash that I was not aware of, and figured I would just clean it up, but apparently it was still an open wound so it began to bleed again.

Short story long, I am an epic clutz and my kids know this, so my daughter pried the fireworks out from under my arm and left them in the frozen food section.

As we were about to check out, I saw the display again and grabbed another pack.

She once again John Cena'd me and brought back sparklers.

Bruh.

How lame.

I was burning my fingers off with those stupid things since the age of 2.

Anways, apparently the only fireworks I'll be seeing this fourth of July will be the ones from my hormonal daughter.

God bless America!

Xoxo,

C.