And to think, we almost missed it.

At The Mom and Dad’s, where we spent July 4th this year, the fireworks were scheduled to go off at 8:15 pm CST. Since we normally operate on EST (with a hefty dose of AST, Anal Standard Time, thanks to rigid scheduling by yours truly), I doubted The Kid would stay awake for the festivities. I pictured a sleeping child in the monitor and a close-to-sleeping me on the couch when the explosions began.

But 8 pm rolled around, and TK was wide awake, tearing around my parents’ house with no sign of slowing down. So we went.

The Sis and Bro-in-Law brought The Niece, her red curls flying around the lawn where neighborhood families were gathered on blankets and a DJ spun weirdly inappropriate tunes (Cupid Shuffle, anyone? Happy birthday, America!). The night grew darker and the mosquitoes more abundant and I wondered if we had made a mistake, since clearly the Explosion Committee was not abiding by AST. I slapped away bugs and prayed away contractions while The Husband chased TK around the grass. Finally, the moment arrived. I held my breath–would TK freak out at the loud pops? Were we bestowing upon him a month’s worth of nightmares? Would I give premature birth on this golf course?

The first lights flashed in the night sky, and their pops accompanied them. TK’s head snapped up and the suspense built. Then…utter glee. His face lit up, his smile widened, and he looked from TH to me as if to say, “Y’all? YOU GUYS. DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

His exuberance grew with each explosion, each burst of light and color: he squealed, he jumped, he ran, he pumped the air with his fist then attempted to reach out his hand to grab the glory in front of his face. I felt that all-too-rare kind of joy that happens to parents, the kind unadulterated by anxiety, uncompromised by fear. Something heavy lifted from my soul and I sank into the moment, tears mixing with laughter.

So much of parenthood is work. Every instruction carries a lesson, every act of discipline a greater point, every sacrifice a goal. Soon after TK was born, The Mom articulated the joy of being a grandparent: the fact that, as a parent, you have to constantly teach; but as a grandparent, you can just enjoy. I carry that charge of teaching–of growing him into a person bent on more than just happiness–as a burden all too often, and when you add to it the ever-present anxiety over his health and safety in a world filled with evil, it can all feel like too much. An anchor weighing me down, making me forget to look up at what, who, ultimately holds all of us. Every push of the swing is coupled with a concern that he could fall out, even as he laughs from his perch, blissfully unaware of the perils surrounding him. I have to be aware, as a parent, all the time–but the worry is another animal, one that breeds control and fear, and all too easily the joy is sucked right out of the present moment.

Then there is this:

The fireworks continued, and I recalled watching them a few years ago from the deck of a boat on the Hudson River, the Statue of Liberty their backdrop. There was more wine that night, later hours, and seemingly more freedom. I looked down at TK, at the excitement on his face, and considered how my idea of freedom has changed in the last couple of years. I always thought it came from within me–as if I could just will myself to be free. Yet somehow, through the dark days of newborn survival and nights in the hospital, through surgical interventions and words not yet spoken, through a tilted head and a hand tugging on my finger, I’ve found freedom in all the things that would have looked like enslavers to the girl on that boat. There is a form of servanthood, called love I think, that breaks the chains that bind me to myself as an ultimate authority and allows me to see beauty from different angles, limitless perspectives: in trenches, at sunrises I would have missed, in the weight of a tiny body pressed into mine in a hospital bed. Somehow, it’s the weight of it all that is my freedom.

I mean, here there were, multicolored explosions erupting behind me, and I’m staring at a two-year-old’s face.

To think we almost missed it? No. Anne Lamott writes that “grace bats last.” Not me.

We never miss the things we’re meant for.

TH and I share a fleeting glance and smile–we will talk about this night for days, years to come. I look back down, where there is no Hudson River, no Statue of Liberty, and the fireworks continue behind me as I watch my new view, the face that lights up my night.