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Oh Say Can You See? Or Are There Too Many People in Front of You at the Fireworks show?

Ah, Baby’s First Independence Day. What a rite of passage.

We celebrated our Fourth of July in the Home of the Brave with lunch at a French bistro (weren’t they our allies?), a Mr. Softee ice cream cone (nothing more American than stuffing your baby with good quality HFCS), and fireworks on the Hudson. Oh, and mama getting her phone stolen at a bodega in Hell’s Kitchen when she left it on the counter for all of two minutes, but whatever.

(To keep perspective, my friend Shane pointed out to me, “At least you’re free from British tyranny.”)

Huck was a trooper all the day long. Sitting patiently in mama’s lap when there were no high chairs at the bistro and exhibiting near perfect table manners (Huck only reached for my steak sandwich once! Luckily crusty bread has a way of taming even the most savage of beast babies), sharing his ice cream cone like a gentleman, and playing nicely while waiting (forever) for the fireworks to start at Riverside Park.

(More after the jump)

The only bummer about babies and the Fourth of July is that babies just have no stamina! Right? By the time the fireworks were really going, Huck was rubbing his eyes and squinting through the drowsiness to see what all the fuss was about. A few times the crowd would cheer at a great run of explosives, and Huck would smile in excitement, before immediately becoming near comatose with exhaustion again.

Near the end of the (very long) fireworks show, Huck started fighting sleep, big time. You’ve seen kids falling alseep in their dinners before, right? It was sort of like that, only he’d be sitting upright in my arms one minute and then BAM, his face would hit my shoulder and he’d be out cold for about 30 seconds, until he’d jerk his head up again in a “what–asleep? not me!” move and try to watch more fireworks. After a while this became far more entertaining than the fireworks themselves.

Hope you all had a great Fourth and that none of your personal property was taken by a bodega owner who probably put it in his pocket the second I walked away from the counter . . . I mean, not that that’s what happened, or whatever.

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