Made in America

At 8:20 p.m. this evening, I went into Aida's room, bent over her crib and lifted her limp, sleeping body to mine. Steve helped me strap her into the baby carrier, her head wobbling to the side as we maneuvered her pajama legs through the holes. I tucked a clean diaper into the carrier's pouch, just in case. And then we set out on a 30 minute walk to view the waterfront fireworks show.

Aida woke just as we walked out the door, her eyes wide with confusion. She made no noise except for a sneeze as we walked the mile around Coffee Pot Bayou in dimming orange light toward the open waters of Tampa Bay. She peered up and around as bicyclists passed us, stray fireworks exploded over us and tail lights lined the street beside us in one long parade.

For perspective, Aida falls asleep most nights between 5:30 p.m. and 6:30 p.m., or as late as 7 p.m. if I'm lucky. She sleeps for six hours before waking up for a feeding, then she's usually down for the count. (Not counting the irregularities that come with teething, constipation, whoknowswhatelse). This means that, besides my regularly mourning the fact that I don't get more play time with the girl, Steve and I have resigned ourselves, for the most part, to living our evenings at home for a while. Occasionally, he'll join friends for dinner or drinks and I'll stay home with Aida, or vice versa. And occasionally, we ask my generous mother to come babysit the sleeping baby while Steve and I head out for dinner or, like last night, a beach sunset.

So, our grand scheme to wake Aida up and take her to see fireworks was completely selfish (what 7-month-old cares about fireworks?) and completely capable of becoming a disaster of epic proportions. Even morons know not to wake a sleeping baby.

Except on the Fourth of July. The morons decided to try it anyway.

For 30 minutes, the three of us sat, watching colors light the sky. Aida alternately stared at the exploding firecrackers, then turned behind us to bounce in my lap while watching a group of kids twirling glow sticks in red, green and yellow.

Steve took some pictures of our pajama-clad baby staring into the sky. Then, he stretched out his legs on the blanket he brought and rested his head on his hands. I love that man.

When the fireworks ended, we packed up our things and walked back to the house, Aida happy, alert and mostly quiet. Along the way, I talked to her about how lucky we are to have been born in this country, how random it is that we were. I wondered aloud how long it would still be a great place to live. Steve shook his head at me. Naturally, I augmented my reflection with spontaneous patriotic song -- America, the Beautiful, the Star Spangled Banner, and America.

Because my husband loves it when I do that.

Back in the cool house by 10 p.m., Aida and I went straight to her bedroom. I fed her and rocked her and put her back in her crib, where she returned to her sleeping state without a hitch.

I wonder if she'll remember in the morning.

Happy Fourth of July, my sweet American baby.

July 4, 2011. Fireworks over North Shore Park.

 

Post-script, July 5, 2011: "Without a hitch" changed at about 1 a.m., when Aida woke then went back to sleep after another feeding and a little rocking. And again at 3 a.m., when her sleep erupted into sobs that didn't end for another 80 minutes. It could have been teething or gas or the fact that we totally broke from routine - or all three. I feel like hell today. And Aida apparently spent much of her day sleeping to catch up. But I'm still glad we made the sojourn. I guess I hope the memory will last longer than the exhaustion.