So I took the kid to the fireworks last night, even though I personally hate fireworks.
(I hate anything bangy. Or outside. Except hiking and camping. I like hiking and camping. Otherwise I want to be inside where there is air conditioning and a roof and pillows.)
I took her because she's a kid and she loves fireworks and it was the 4th and I figured I would be a eee-eeee-eevil parent if I didn't and because the other liberal professor invited us over for a cookout at their house, which is like the coolest house ever, out in the woods (as the kid puts it), so it's almost like hiking and camping, being at their house, so I thought, okay, I can take that.
Also, there would be beer.
We went. I drank beer. The fireworks were nice. Kind of bangy. The kid and her fiance, Miles, climbed on the coal hill which is a monument to all the coal miners who helped build the town. The new kid the other liberal professors has recently produced, whom we have decided shall be Mick for the purposes of the blog, who is five months old now, was very entertaining.
But then, after the fireworks? On the way home?
The kid had a major meltdown. Screamed and howled and shrieked and held me personally responsible for all the evils of the world.
Because the fireworks were over and there would be no more fireworks until next July 4th.
And this was my fault.
And mr. delagar wouldn't let me smack her one time either.
Claimed it wouldn't help. Claimed she was just over-tired and had low-blood sugar and if I smacked her she would just cry louder.
So my migraine is back, and I'm in a testy mood, and I didn't get to sleep until two in the morning, and I'm finding it really hard to get anything useful done here.
Do you think if I hung a sign on my door, WENT HOME PISSY, anyone would care?