I was a child who loved the Fourth of July. Every year my family would go to my grandfather’s house and have a big dinner. We would see family we hadn’t seen in quite a while, as well as some we saw at least once a week. Sometime around eight at night it was time for fireworks. All the kids, and those adults who thought they were kids, would go out to the street. I was happily watching some other kids take their turn to light some works, and I wasn’t paying attention to anything else. Suddenly, I felt a terrible stinging on my back. I yelled and turned around, to find a cousin holding a lit stick, and laughing. He had held the stick on my back and burned me, just to watch me cry! I had been afraid of fireworks and dreading the yearly tradition since, afraid someone might burn me again!
For years I couldn’t take being around the works, even after I grew up and had children of my own. I never told my husband why I never participated each year when he and the kids would be enjoying themselves with fireworks. He didn’t know I had a mild phobia. I would struggle to hide a flinch when I heard the sound of the exploding toys, and feign exhaustion when it was time to light things up. Many times I was almost running back into whatever house I was near, to get away. I could barely walk past them, and forget holding them. I was ashamed to be so old and so afraid of such a little thing. And I wanted that to stop.
About three years ago, at my Mother-in-Law’s for the Fourth, I was dreading the big event that seems to happen in every family every year. But this year, I was determined to beat this fear. The time was coming and I needed to put the big girl drawers on and face it. Why? Well, two of my children had noticed Mommy’s lack of involvement every year, and was tired of her missing out. I found myself on the porch with my sister- and mother-in-laws, watching my husband and his brother with all the kids, lighting fireworks in the street. I was safe, but incredibly nervous. I had been building up for this all year, by purposely exposing myself to them, touching them, etc., but I could not get past that.
Then my youngest daughter was excitedly calling me. The next thing I knew I was out in the street, standing there stiffly. I hoped she didn’t notice my hesitation in coming, or she might think I was scared. So what if she was right, she didn’t need to know.
My husband walked to me with a loud, “What? Mommy is playing with fireworks with us? Whoa!” I wanted to punch him. But I only said, “Yes. So what?” like I wasn’t secretly shaking in my Nike’s. Panting and trying to hide it, I snatched the lighter from him, really to keep my perspiring hands from shaking, and then lit the string on the closest firecracker.
But it wasn’t so bad; it didn’t explode in my hand or face. I had a slight feeling of relief. I was proud of myself, but my hands were sweating even more so than five minutes ago. The firecracker had not finished yet, and I was waiting for the inevitable burn, as I slowly backed away.
Andnothing happened. The sparks were bright, brilliant, multicolored and wild, but not going to get me. I actually stood there a little stunned for a few seconds, waiting, as my kids and their cousins cheered. That wasn’t bad at all. I could almost smile. I decided to light some more, at my daughter’s request, remembering that it was for her, for them. They were having a blast. I was, too, because though I was a little nervous, I was no longer afraid! And to me that is a big difference.
