Last night we drove out to have dinner around the pond with some new friends from church. It felt so weekendish, and it was only Wednesday. Silas kept asking, "Are we going to celebrate?"
Calvin was officially on the mend, making up for 3 lost days of speaking. (My ears were sore, but in the very best way.) His body is thankful to be winding down from the steroids. He's relocating his enthusiasm for 8-year-old life. So, yeah. Heck yes. Let's celebrate.
We had ourselves a grand time, finally feeling able to move around in our regular life again, grateful to have the chatter back in our biggish boy. We've felt a long way from normal for much too long, or maybe abnormal had started to feel like the soup du jour, which is the option most likely to keep me awake at night. We were finally all in the same place, all relatively healthy. It was just what we needed in a lot of different ways.
In the end, we stayed long enough to catch some over-eager fireworks on the horizon.
We came home, tucked tired little bodies into bed after dark.
We had a solid 3 hours before the puking began.
So our plans tonight are suddenly up in the air and our girl seems fine today, but I never know the "rules" about these things. Our instincts run a bit wobbly and I'm forever trying to think about how a more normal mom might react.
There's a strong possibility that we're grounded again, but I'm banking on our ability to cook up a celebration out of left-over peanut butter cake, tough bean soup and the lone red-white-and-blue decoration Calvin crafted yesterday from a bag of pipe cleaners.
Happy Independence Day, friends of mine.
Know freedom today.