Fifth of July (Or Is It?)

Scott took the four girls to see fireworks last night, while I stayed home with my exhausted, early-to-bed boys. It was a peaceful evening for me, and a quick one. The girls tumbled in the door around ten, flushed, starry-eyed, thrilled. “Too wonderful to talk about,” Rose said, which may be a first for our family. Scott had found them a choice spot on a rise at the edge of a golf course, and they stretched out on their backs—no blanket, we don’t think that far ahead—looking at stars until the fireworks started. Scott says Rilla ran and ran and twirled in the dark, and it was magical. She fell asleep on the way home, and he carried her straight to bed. I’d dressed her in soft clothes just in case, so we wouldn’t have to wake her by switching to pajamas.

This morning she padded down the hall toward me, staring in sleepy confusion at her pink sweater and t-shirt.

“I didn’t go to bed?” she asked, or said—it was more a statement than a question, but clearly a statement of fact which she found puzzling.

I’m trying to imagine swimming up toward consciousness and finding myself in my bed, with my sisters still sleeping in theirs, and then noticing my daytime clothes and deciding that meant I hadn’t slept at all. Even when I explained, she was still skeptical.