At the end of every July, our little town puts on quite the festival. Saturday night fireworks are part of the festivities and it's a tradition for us to wake Rowan up and watch from our front porch. This year we thought Tate might like to get in on the action as well, but he was way too deeply sleeping for us to wake him up. So Rowan had some alone time with both mom and dad. I loved hearing her running commentary about the fireworks: "That one is my favorite! It's sprinkles down and looks just like a dead rose." "Do you think this is the grand finale? I hope it's not; I want this to last for hours." And my absolute favorite "Mom, are people doing these fireworks? Or is God making them for us?" She didn't want to miss a moment of the action. When we retreated from the front porch to the big windows in her room, she ran as fast as she could. She kept asking us to wake up Tate, even though we both tried. She couldn't believe that she will be 6 years old the next time we watch these fireworks together (and, admittedly, neither can I).
I started to wonder when it will be that we won't have to wake her up at 10 because she'll still be awake. When she'll want to go to the fireworks with her friends instead of with us. When she might just catch a glimpse of the fireworks out her car window as she's driving to a friend's house. And I hope that she'll remember our little tradition. Maybe she'll remember sitting on my lap on the front porch swing or sitting, cuddled up with Lance at her window, and she'll have just a little slice of childlike wonder one more time.