July 4th, Independence Day.
We weren't watching fireworks near home this year — we were in New York.
The kids had known about the East Coast trip for weeks and had been counting down. On the plane, my son finished his sticker book, then read a book about airplane travel, and when we landed said: "I thought it would take forever, but it didn't really."
Our first night in New York, we watched fireworks near Times Square.
The crowds and noise there are unlike anything in SoCal — the kind that wraps around you completely. My son got pressed into me by the crowd. I tucked him between me and my husband, and he just stayed there, head up, watching the sky.
Fireworks going off one after another, light on his face.
He didn't say anything. No "mom look," no asking what color was next, no asking to be carried — just watching, completely still and quiet.
For him, that silence was extremely rare. I remember thinking: wait — has this child actually been stunned speechless by fireworks? 😄
I looked down at his face and thought: I need to remember this.
Then we went to DC.
The Smithsonian museums are all free — that fact moves me every time. This country put its best knowledge in free buildings and said: come in, anyone. We spent an entire afternoon at the Natural History Museum. My son walked into the elephant hall, looked up, and stood there for a long time.
Then he asked: "Mom, was it alive before?"
"Yes, it was alive."
He nodded, quietly processing. Then: "Then it's impressive. It's still here."
That's the thing about kids this age — they say something so simple, so direct, so creative, and somehow it stops you completely. I've always thought the things they come out with at this age are the most precious. You never know what's coming next. But whatever it is, it tends to stay with you for a long time.
My daughter, in a New York bookstore, walked to the shelf herself and chose a picture book about New York City. In DC, she chose one about President Lincoln. She wants to use reading to hold onto this trip.
Back in SoCal, summer was winding down.
We pulled out the reading challenge records and counted together — we'd read so much more than I realized. The library's English reading challenge was done too. Two challenges, two sets of rewards, both kids thrilled.
But what made me happiest wasn't the rewards.
This summer, books were always there. In the car, at the beach, in every line we waited in, in those fifteen minutes before bed — in our bags, in our hands, between us.
Books were the background music of our summer.
What stayed isn't the things we checked off a list.
It's every excited, curious expression on my son's face. It's my daughter choosing her own book at the store. It's the Father's Day morning when dad's evil witch voice made everyone lose it. It's the Yosemite cabin where everyone piled together and it was just — happy.
And this: they still want to sit next to me.
Right now, just now, they still do.
Time to refocus. School is counting down. But this summer — we didn't waste it. We grew in it, together.
