Un-planning the holiday

As the holiday weekend approached, I let down some of my planning, organizing guard and let the new, pink skin of just being unfold.

On my desk, I have a copy of the parenting agreement Lil E's dad and I have already invested several meetings, two progress hearings, hours and hours of mediation, countless text messages and burning conversations in not signing.

Although we we've had one little hour in dispute (a ridiculous reality but those sixty minutes are indicative of much bigger issues), the one thing we agreed on easily was the holiday schedule. So there it is in my calendar, laying across these limbo days between separation and divorce.

I knew without reading the schedule what days it
offered to me to spend with Lil E. I wrote it so that I would always be
able (or at least always until he can huff off with the car keys
himself) to take my boy to the fireworks downtown on July 3rd. The
Fourth seemed less important to me. I'd trade a BBQ for a million other
people in Grant Park any day, or even every year.

I knew that
this year I would take him downtown somehow, either on the el or in the
car, alone or with friends. But as the day crept toward us, I decided
to leave that night and the rest of holiday at that. No big plans, no
strategies, no details. I decided not to have anymore calls or
questions about it with the Almost Ex. I chose to close the calendar
and take the time I could get.

And somehow, it worked. Lil E came home from his mid-week day with his dad and we ate dinner quietly, then headed downtown with Foodmomiac,
her sweet nanny and sassy little girl. She asked if we'd like to watch the show from her office, park for free in the garage and avoid all the crowds. I knew Danielle is a mama who
would get it, I knew she'd be flexible and fun and not worry about how
it would all work out. We just went.

I packed a bottle of wine and a tote bag full of
snacks, Lil E brought cars and crayons to share. Danielle brought the
building passes that would sneak me in on her husband's badge (so
stealth) and allow the kids to enter freely (little terrorists, she
called them). The kids immediately held hands and (sorry, Claire), Lil
E was suddenly smitten with the six-year old he clung to up the
elevator and in the corridors and pressed against the glass as the
fireworks started.

We gave names to the lights that streamed across the
sky and reflected on to the lake. Dylan and Lil E released their grasp
just long enough to dance along to the radio.  Danielle and I talked
business and blogging and kid stuff before we settled in to watch the
show too.

It wasn't the same, watching the fireworks from high
above the city, seeing them explode in front of us instead of over us.
But it was happy and relaxed and without the stress that so many
holidays this year have held.

We got home late and I
carried Lil E into bed. He was reluctant to let down but too worn out to fight it, and he drifted off against me,
breathing heavy. I was tired too, I guess, but wide awake with the
fireworks in my mind. I thought of the white ones, my favorites, like
chandeliers that melt into Lake Michigan. And that image of the
exploding and burning gave way to a very real sense of peace.

I let the night go. Even just for those few minutes, it was light and then still, laughter and then sleep.