Thank you a thousand times over for your patience and your support of my stories. There will be more of both soon. Hope you are all having a wonderful holiday. Happy New Year!

Now, another holiday... Back to July 4th!

"In the little little town of Kittery, a wee wee Whipple is born," Tilly sings as the colonial dressed and orange life-vested kids trample each other across the makeshift stage to see America's newborn prodigal son—William Whipple Junior.

"As the snow came down..." Tilly continues, as some stage-side kids chuck boxfuls of shredded up paper and packing supplies out to simulate a January snowstorm in Maine. It's a sideways snow, but we're suspending disbelief all over the fucking place today. "Out came the town... to kiss this blessed baby child on the crown."

You'd think the wisemen were about to show up at the manger from the sound of this.

Little Suzetta Buchanan—who's playing Mother Whipple—holds an anatomically correct baby doll out for the world to see. I know it's anatomically correct because, in this Lion King moment, the anatomical correctness is not covered by the blanket and flashed like Gordon to the crowd.

"It's a boy! It's a boy!" Little Mother Whipple calls out and my grandfather, who's seated in the front row of the audience, hollers back, "We can see it!" Everyone laughs, except my grandmother and a horrified Grace.

"This thing is worse up on its feet than it was on the page," I whisper backstage to Taylor from my place of peeking at the curtain. It's hard to watch this monstrosity on its feet—and not just Tilly, the play, too. We didn't make cuts or changes to the opening, so as not to alert her to our shenanigans, but fuck is this whole mess terrible.

"I think the piano accompaniment is off, Mr. Grey," Taylor says as he adjusts his cherries drooping on each side of his wood—on his costume, that is. He's a tree. He's always a tree. Unless he's a vegetable.

"You think?" I say, sarcastically, as I watch Tilly's mother pound away on some eighties keyboard with her pink lacquered hooves.

"Do I look alright, sir?" Taylor asks me. "These cherries are quite heavy for the stems and they tend to fall off." He works to secure one that's hanging on within an inch of its life from a green pipe cleaner.

"Did Gail make your costume?" I give him the thrice over. If so, she did it at midnight, on sleeping pills, with her left foot.

"No, the preschoolers made this one, sir."

"Oh, then yes. No one was ever a better tree than you, Taylor."

"Thank you, sir." He's so humbled by that compliment, it's troubling.

I peek out at the stage again, but before I can focus on the action happening, I feel another sort of action happening on my right ass cheek. Either Taylor is prodding me with his limb or there's a bug in my revolutionary knickers. No, that's not the bite of an insect—it's a pinch, from greedy fingers. One of those mothers is trying to accost me again. I turn to face the pinching perpetrator, pissed. "I have a wife, you know—"

"And she thinks you look quite adorable," Ana says.

Ana!

I close the curtain and walk down the few deck steps to face her. "Well, you're quite adorable yourself, Mrs. Grey," I smile and give her a sweet kiss. "Wait, why are you up, walking around and pinching my bottom?"

"Because if I sit down I can't get up in time for my part." She puts her hands on top of her belly and I place my hands on top of hers. "Plus, I just felt like making myself busy and the pinching of your bottom seemed like a good way to expend my energy."

"Ana," I gasp as I take hold of her hands. "This could be a sign!"

"That I'm an ass woman?" She winks and smiles.

"No, that's it's almost time."

"Time for what?"

"You're in nesting mode! You're going to have the babies! We should get to a hospital."

"Christian, I'm not nesting. I'm just going stir crazy with all the rest you're having me take."

"That's doctor's orders."

"No, she ordered no sex. I'm not on bed rest, I just can't have orgasms. Although, I'd be willing to help you out with your frustrations again, Sir." She licks her lips and bites. God, she's so hot and cute when she's all flirty and chewing on her flesh. I have to keep from smiling to show her I'm serious.

"Ana, I know how you get in the final stretch—the itchy fingers, the pacing, the domestic tasks... Let's not forget what happened the morning of Phoebe's birth." I close my eyes and shake my head, remembering the horrors I witnessed.

"I was vacuuming the nursery," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, there was more than vacuuming going on. I saw the bottle of organic cleaner and your little polishing cloths. The diaper organization on the changing station was library quality." Nine months pregnant and she wanted to slave away with housework! "Two hours later, whoosh, your water broke all over that freshly vacuumed carpet. And with all that happened after—"

"Christian, I promise you, I will let you know loud and clear if I need to go to the hospital. Right now, I just want to pinch your ass." She does it again, with a rebellious grin.

"Ana, I mean it. Don't tax yourself."

"No tax-er-tation without rep-er-sen-teration," Teddy practices his line as he and Fritzy zoom around our legs.

"Hey, no running near water," I say and they slow.

"Are you water?" Fritzy asks. A real chip off the old blockhead.

"No, but we're surrounded by it."

"But, we're in the boat middle and the water's way out on the sides," Teddy says.

"That's still too close for tomfoolery." I do feel better knowing I have security posted around the entire perimeter whose sole purpose is to watch for rogue kids near the rails.

Fritzy tugs on my pant leg. "Did you know our doodies get flushed out to the ocean and we swim in them when we take vacation?" Maybe where his father takes him.

"And did you know that if you run and jump too hard you might fall right through and straight into that global toilet bowl below?

"Cool!"

"Fritzy's clock is off!" Teddy says.

"I can see that." Oh wait, he means the clock face he's wearing to play in their Minute Men scene and not his general mental state.

"Stop running around. That's why your clock hands are spinning." I lean down to have a look. "What time is he supposed to be?"

"We wanna be the same times," Teddy says. "So, we're not each living on a different day for any hours."

I straighten the two of them. "There, high noon for you both on the same Thursday."

"Why don't you practice your march," Ana says and amazingly they do so.

"March, not sprint," I say. "And where I can see you!" They start to scamper off. "I'm old, I can't see that far!"

"Shhhh!" Ana whispers. "The play is going on."

"Trust me, she's belting out so loud no one can hear anything else, except the buzz in their ears."

"Daddy! Mommy! Look at my pony!" Phoebe says as she rides on the back of the miniature horse I rented for her "Paula Revere" ride.

"Phoebe, you can't ride that pony around the boat!" I say. I can see the top of Chester's head just peeking out from her pocket. His colonial wig looks like one of his relatives passed out on his head.

"I got the reins, sir," says the girl who's the handler, trailing a bit behind. She's definitely less girl and more handler. "Just getting her set up for the big scene."

"That animal isn't going to buck up wildly or anything?" I ask.

"No, she's a real good girl," the handler says. "She smiles when you give her sugar." She demonstrates with a cube in her palm.

"I don't like the way that horse shows it's teeth."

"Christian, it's a smile," Ana says.

"Smiles aren't always happy," I say to her. "I smiled for years with no joy."

"You smiled in flat line, no teeth," Ana says. She's right, I always did smile in a flat line back then. How odd.

"She's the sweetest," Phoebe says, patting the pony on the mane. "I call her Cupcake Sprinkles."

"Well, that's a lovely name." I give Phoebe a kiss on the head. "But, you be careful."

"I'll walk with them," Ana says, and also wrangles up the boys. "We'll go over their lines."

"Fine. But, watch for kicking hooves and do it with a relaxed disposition!" I'm met with more rolling of the eyes.

"And the baby grows!" Tilly belts out, nearly cracking the sails and my eardrums. She's like an alleycat Aretha Franklin impersonator up there.

"It's my turn," Taylor says as he takes off for his place in the woods on stage.

Fucking finally!

"Break a limb," I say. I know, bad joke.

This is where the fun begins...

Hack, Hack, Hack.

The kid playing young Whipple—his name is Caden or Jaden or something aden —slams that fake ax into Taylor's trunk again and again, and with such verve. God, it's brutal. Good thing Taylor's made of gunmetal and spare parts.

I take it back, the fun actually begins after all that.

With the dramatics of Olivier, or the comedy of a Marx—less Groucho, more Harpo—Taylor falls to the ground, and actually does break a limb. At least it's not one on his actual person, and just one made of cardboard and crepe paper. Of course those damn cherries let loose all over the stage and fly out into the audience.

"Look it's a cough drop!" some kid out there yells.

"Eww, it's a hairy one!" a girl says.

Those cherries were cough drops? Why are they hairy? Oh, the pipe cleaners.

There's a rustle in the bushes and out comes Father Whipple—the dad, not a priest—played by Lloyd Ramone, who is also a marginally present father and definitely not a priest. He owns a "web dead" business. Basically, if you pay him enough he'll prevent your degenerate mess of a life from showing up on a Google search. That's why I have Welch. He raises degenerates from the dead of cyberspace daily.

"Son, did you chop down my cherry tree?" Lloyd asks, turning his back to the crowd. At first I think he's gotten stage fright, or he's solely an idiot, but then I see why— he's got his business info stitched on the back of his cloak.

"Father, I can not tell a lie," Young Whipple says. It was—"

"George Washington!" fallen Taylor shouts.

"No," the kid says, scrunching his face. "It was me—"

"Meeeeeester George Washington," Taylor says. Good save with the Meeeeeester. "George Washington could never tell a lie."

The lights dim. The pre-arranged music from the sound system that drowns out Tilly's mother's shit goes up. Taylor and I found a club remix of Yankee Doodle Dandy and something Puff Diddy Daddy on a website devoted to patriotic rap. It was late and we were punch drunk—and I think the only club this has ever played in is Grandma's Basement, but it's surprisingly effective.

Six little preschoolers—three boys and three girls— all dressed in cardboard cherry costumes do their little dance around the dead wood that is Taylor.

"Honesty," the kids sing, sharply. "Is the best policy!" They all wag their fingers in judgement. Fittingly, right at Lloyd Ramone.

The smoke machine turns on and the lights swirl in patriotic colors.

Tilly looks up, horrified at what's transpiring. She catches my eye and I just shrug.

The spotlight goes on. I'm waiting for the big moment when Washington appears—or rather Bo Tidwiler in a wig and hopefully not with a margarita in hand—but there's nothing. Just the continual chant of the honesty policing cherries.

I look around. He's not backstage or in the audience. He's not at the bar—Thank God for that!

But, where the fuck is he?

"Bo Tidwiler is vomiting all over your kitchen, Grey," Kavanagh says to me from behind.

"What?" I turn around to face her.

"Seasick."

"But, he's George Washington."

"Well, evidentially, George didn't make it across the Delaware." The snarktress smirks.

The song fades and I hear footsteps. I turn to see the shadow of a man crossing the stage. It's hard to make out through the abundance of flag colored smoke, but his silhouette stands proud, holding firm to his faux musket.

"He's going on now!" I point. I don't think I've ever seen Tidwiler stand so erect before. Has he lost weight in the last forty-three minutes? Has he gained pecs?

"No, they had to re-cast," she says.

"Who's they?"

"The group witnessing Tidwiler spill his guts all over your tile. I handed a script to the best possible alternative."

"You did what? But, everyone else has a part. Who's available to be George Washington on a moment's notice?"

The spotlight comes down on George.

Oh fuck.

Of course she did this.

It's the photographer.

Rodriguez walks into the spotlight—script in hand—like it's been calling him all his life.

"Jose can't be George Washington!" I say to her.

"Why, because he's Mexican?" Kate snarks.

"No, because he's an idiot!"

"Yo, bro," Elliot says, coming up to us, looking like a skunk just let loose on his face. "You gotta get that guy out of your kitchen."

"Who gets sea sick this close to the dock?" We're only on a short harbor cruise to thrill everyone that "we're out to sea," but we're really barely going anywhere. "He's not sick—he's drunk."

"I don't know man, but get new bowls and potted arrangements."

He better not have fucked up Ana and my special wooden apples!

"I could never fib to the face of my father," Jose sings, so over the top he's hit the bottom again. Why does he sound like Enrique Iglesias would if he just got kicked in the nuts and kind of enjoyed it? "And I could never lie to this country of mine."

"Dude, why did George Washington grow up so fast?" Elliot asks. "He was like five and now he's like a hundred."

"A hundred?" I shoot back. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know. They lived long in Biblical times."

I shake my head. What a moron. "It's artistic interpretation. Plus, that wasn't little Washington before, it was little Whipple."

"Aren't you little Whipple?" he asks.

"No, I'm big Whipple, and don't you forget it."

"Sir," Taylor says, coming back stage, looking like a tree who's been through three hard winters, a summer drought and a hurricane. "What happened to Mr. Tidwiler?"

"He's throwing up in the kitchen," I say.

"Seasick," Kavanagh says.

"Tequila," I say.

"Jose's really good," Elliot says, listening to him. "I kinda feel like hugging Dad now."

"Papa oh Papa," Jose belts out. "I learned at your knee how to be...me..." Oh God, the long, high notes really make me want to send him to the hospital.

"Should I call an ambulance, sir?" Taylor asks. Did he just read my mind? Have we reached that level? Oh wait, he means Tidwiler, not Jose.

"Yes. Put Tidwiler in the lifeboat and have Sawyer get him to shore. I don't want the play disrupted!" Oddly, I realize I'm actually barking orders up a tree, here. "And even if he's intoxicated, make sure everyone believes he is seasick. I don't want his kid to hear anything different."

"Yes, sir." Taylor takes off.

"Mr. Grey, can I have a word with you," Tilly whisper-calls over to me as she arrives back stage.

Oh fuck. I've got a man vomiting in my kitchen, now Tilly's going to do the same to me with her words in my ears—and her general appearance and odor may induce me to do the same. And, fittingly, all this upchucking is happening to a soundtrack sung by the photographer.

So no one will hear, I move to her and pull her aside. I think this excites her. Like we're sneaking off together.

"Mr. Grey, someone has changed the script," she says.

"You don't say. I had noticed a thing or two out of place."

"Do you know who could have done this?"

"Well, as you know, I passed the script along to my big Broadway producer friend and he had some ideas that he passed along to the cast..."

"He didn't pass anything along to me."

"Well, that's because he enjoyed all of your... thing...that you do...so much."

"My singing and dancing?" Was that a dance she was doing? I thought she was teetering because her corset's so tight and her dogs are stuffed within an inch of their life into those lace-up booties.

"Yes, so there were no changes necessary for you, for the most part."

"Well, that's wonderful."

"It is."

"But, your friend is changing the story!" Is she fucking serious? She re-wrote history with this thing. I just made it right again. I would argue with her, but I don't want another revolution starting up backstage. I just want her to keep her mouth shut.

"He's very important," I say. "He knows some big producers who would want to take a real shot with this thing..." in the head, but I won't expound upon that.

"Father, oh father, I will make you and my country proud," Jose blasts out the last words of his song. The crowd cheers and there are thunderous applause.

What the hell? They liked him? They really liked him? I race to look out. Why are my mother and Carla giving him a standing ovation? Why the hell is Mia?!

That's it, I'm not serving booze at any more school functions.

"Yo bro, you're on," Elliot says.

He's right. My first scene is up.

Shit.

#######

It's spring in Whippleville, cherry blossoms now cover the ground and my wig is trying to murder me.

"Son, now that you are grown, you must put aside your boyhood ways," Lloyd Ramone—who has baby powder in his tied back black hair now to signify his aging process—says to me. This whole set-up feels really fucking twisted. Two grown men with powdered hair and tails, holding muskets. I refuse to call him Daddy. "You must find yourself a wife!"

Cue Tilly walking down the lane, twirling a little parasol over her shoulder as she pretends to sniff some artificial flowers stuck to an artificial bush on the artificial lawn. Taylor and I should've swiped that track from The Producers—Springtime for Hitler for what I'm looking at right now.

I stare at her. I'm supposed to be mesmerized by the beauty of my new flower sniffing her flowers, but I don't think I'm thespian enough to mask my disgust. It's sort of like the look you give your grandmother when she tells you at the Thanksgiving table that the prunes have been working.

"The wait for love is no longer," I say and make my way to Tilly. She's expecting my song—The American Revolution of My Heart. Instead, she gets me saying from arm's length, "Let's get hitched."

She gapes, but before she can protest further the wedding march cues up and blasts from the speakers as the kids work to change the backdrop from the garden to a chapel, all while singing, "What a lovey dovey day for a wedding... A lovedy dovedy day to be wed."

"Why did we skip all of our courtship?" she angrily whispers to me as her little bridesmaids ready her for the wedding. She's handed her bouquet and bends to have her veil attached. When she stands up I'm faced with some real Bride of Frankenstein shit. "How will the audience know the depth of your love for me if they don't see the garden dance or our evening in the barn hay?"

"These things are better left imagined, trust me."

"Do you take this gentler-men to be your law filled husband?" Archie Felch, the tow-headed boy playing the minister, shouts out to Tilly.

"I do," she says.

"And do you take her to be your law filled wife?" he shouts at me. Someone told this kid to project all the way back to 1776.

"If I must." Tilly gives me a look. "I mean, I do."

"By the power in my vest I say you are married and you could kiss and have babies."

Tilly is expecting me to lean in for the big wet one.

She's expecting love...

But, an explosion sounds from the speakers. The lights go down, then flash in effect.

It's war.

The kids change the backdrop to a battlefield—it's a Star Wars Lego character one, but it does the job.

"You better pay me your monies!" a boy playing a British Red Coat hollers as he charges on stage with others of his kind.

"We don't getta vote on it, so you don't get our Benjamins!" one of the boys playing an American rebel says back. He ad-libbed that one. Too bad Benjamin isn't on the hundred dollar bill yet.

A very toned down version of the Boston Massacre begins to take place. So toned down it's really just three boys in those red coats representing the Queen's England shooting water pistols at the five boys dressed in rubbish representing America. The "American" boys pull out matching water pistols and we're suddenly in a super soaker war.

"The Americans aren't supposed to win this one," I whisper to one of the boys dressed in rags, but he continues hosing down the Brits.

"We'll throw their tea into the sea!" BoBo Tidwiler shouts as he and a group of colonial kids dressed as Native Americans burst onto the stage.

"No tax on tea! No tax on tea!" they chant.

Roughhousing their way over to the little boat set-up that holds the teabags—Twinings in a wink and nod to my Ana—they grab fistfuls of little packets. They're supposed to throw them over the edge of the set and into a box, only they're having too much fun with it and they start chucking them at each other, swinging them by the bag strings.

"No tax on tea! No tax on tea!"

Unfortunately the kids from the massacre haven't left the stage like they were scripted to, and they continue their super soaker war. And as the water is shot at the teabag swingers and throwers, brown liquid starts to run all over everything and the ship smells like I imagine the water did back then.

"Our nation is in trouble," Elliot says as he takes the stage as Thomas Jefferson. He's telling me. The Grace will reek of English Breakfast forever.

"Thomas Jefferson, how can I offer you council?" I shout over these kids.

"We can not stand for tyranny!" he yells out with a fist pump in the air. "We must fight!"

The kids cheer—and fight. The problem is the "American" kids are fighting each other now.

It's fucking chaos.

A new backdrop of Paula Revere's Ride is brought in—nine houses drawn on butcher paper with little windows cut out of each for the townspeople to look out of. When the lights dim, those at war are haphazardly ushered off the stage by Tilly and a few of her minions, and the townspeople take their places at their little windows.

Elliot and I exit stage right, as we aren't in this scene, and I immediately go to find Phoebe and that horse.

"Be careful and don't go too fast," I say to Phoebe as Ana helps to ready her in the saddle. Of course Phoebe giggles and pays me no real mind as the handler let's go of the reins and she trots off. I gasp, nearly having a heart attack witnessing this. I fear her first driving attempts will go something like this.

"Don't worry, Daddy. She's doing very well," Ana says as we watch.

"What about you, Mommy?" I put a hand on her belly. "You look a little flushed. And you're carrying awfully low right now. Are your joints feeling loose?" I'm keeping a keen eye on her flexibility—even more keen than usual.

"Christian, I'm not in labor." She kisses me on the cheek. "Please, stop worrying. Let's watch our daughter."

"I thought you didn't want me to worry," I say, worrying.

"The Brit-shits are coming! The Brit-shits are coming!" Phoebe yells at the top of her lungs as she and the horse enter the stage.

Oh my God. I think I heard my mother gasp. Or maybe it was the collective of all the mothers gasping at once.

"Did she just say—" Ana asks.

"Yes. I'm glad Flynn's not here," I say. "He'd think I put her up to it." Ana dips her head into my shoulder and giggles.

If I was worried before that the horse would buck and rear and take off with my daughter, I was sorely mistaken. The horse is nice and slow—almost painfully slow—making for less dramatics for the ride and more relief for the father.

"Hi Ava!" Phoebe says as she waves to her cousin who's poking her head out of one of the cutout windows.

"Hi Pee-Bee!" Ava waves and the audience laughs.

Phoebe putters on that pony down the lane—and by putters I mean putters. At this rate this show will be finished by New Years.

"That horse really is tame," I whisper to the handler, who's stage-side, looking on.

"Yep," she says. "She's one of our best. She never gets shook up for nothing. Well... unless she sees a rodent. Then she goes crazy." She laughs.

Oh my God—a rodent.

Chester!

In a flash, I'm out to the stage.

I can see Chester poking his head out of Phoebe's pocket. Then, he's on her shoulder. The pony stops.

Nayyyyyy!

"No!" I grab Phoebe and lift her off the horse. In the process, Chester jumps and lands on the back of the horse—claws first.

The pony rears up.

"Chester!" Phoebe calls out and the rodent digs his nails into the horse, gripping its hide. Cupcake Sprinkles takes off, bucking all over the stage as Chester holds on with rodeo skill. He actually looks like he's enjoying all this!

The handler rushes out and fights to grab the reins, but the pony is running back and forth so fast, kicking those styrofoam peanuts and cough drops everywhere, that it's nearly impossible to catch her.

"Daddy! Save Chester!" Phoebe says as I carry her to Ana.

"Okay, baby. Stay here!" I put her down and Ana holds to her as I run after the little horse and the little rat. The audience is gasping, oohing and awing. I think they think this is part of the show!

Tilly did partly get her way—Whipple is fully involved with Revere's Ride now.

Finally, I stand in front of the horse, blocking the path, as the handler grabs her reins. The horse rears and Chester leaps off of her, flying claws first, straight into my neck.

I cry out as he digs those nails into my flesh. Damn, hamster claws are sharp.

The handler trots the pony off stage and Phoebe runs out to pull Chester off of me.

"Oh Chester, are you hurted?" Phoebe cuddles him as I tend to the rodent gashes on my neck. Chester snuggles into her, playing the consummate victim.

The audience is hushed and all on the stage are frozen. The silence finally broken when my grandfather says, "Did the Brit-shits steal Paul Revere's horse?"

#######

The only thing possibly worse than Tilly up on stage today, or having a wild horse on the loose and hamster claws dug into your neck, is Kavanagh singing twelve verses about sewing the flag. I know she's Betsy Ross, and I like the flag as much as the next guy, but I swear it took six of the verses just to get her to the point of actually making a stitch. I thought the talk of fine cottons for a fine, fine country would never fucking end.

"A needle and a thread runs through it... the red and the white and the blue," she sings. "A needle and a thread runs through it to stitch America together, true. Our banner waves over fields of grain because a needle and a thread ran through it—for patriots, me and you.

What the hell.

The lights dim and I've either died or the scene has ended—either way it's a relief. Marginal applause assure me it's over.

"Betsy Ross is hot," Elliot says, hooting and hollering, as Kavanagh comes off stage and they immediately start sucking face.

The lights flash again and we're transported to the battlefield of the republic.

"No taxeration without reprearsentation," Teddy shouts and the ominous music we plucked from a war film that Taylor is troublingly overfamiliar with plays as Teddy leads his Minute Men into battle.

"One, two...buckle our shoes," the Minute Men sing as they march in imperfect formation through the dead of night woods. Fritzy looks like he's either trying to go AWOL or he's fighting a demon that's just possessed him. And his clock's at ten past seven now.

Three, four, feet to the floor..." They stomp.

Wasn't there a horror movie with this kind of chanting?

They keep marching in circles, signifying they're going deeper and deeper into throes of battle. Maybe Fritzy's just dizzy.

When the lights go up, Elliot and I take our place in history again.

"We must fight for our freedom!" I say and the Minute Men chant the word as they continue their circular march.

"Freedom!" Elliot yells out, like he's fucking Braveheart.

"But, I feel we are lost, without direction..." I say. "We need a leader. Someone who will guide our broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous nights..."

"I know who will lead us?" Elliot says. "Whipple!"

"That's the old script," I say under my breath.

"Oh yeah, they changed that," he says. "Washington!"

"Oh my word!" I hear Tilly say offstage, and there are audible sobs.

Jose comes out to whistles and applause.

What the literal fuck?

"I will do it," the photographer says and the ladies in the audience applaud. There's an odd whistle.

Hell.

"And I will lead the troops to victory." He starts to march and the Minute Men follow him off the stage.

There's silence for several moments while I wait for Elliot to say his line.

"We must go to Philadelphia!" Elliot shouts.

That wasn't it. There were four lines before that! But, fuck it, it moves things along faster.

The scenery is changed, the stage cleared, the Liberty Bell rolled in—and the three stooges of American history come out: Fritzy's dad Haskell as Benjamin Franklin, Suzy Buchanan's father's Divid (yes, that's an i and not a David) as John Adams, and some guy I don't really know that resembles a J.R.R. Tolkien character as Hancock.

We hushedly mock debate as the rest of the signers—kids carrying life-size fountain pens—sing, "We declare, that everyone is free. We declare, the rights to life and liberty. We declare, that happiness should be for all of we. And so we declare, we have a new coun-turrr-y."

There's a dance and a theatrical twirling of the pens. Big applause for that number.

"We have the right to fight our oppressors," Haskell says.

"We have the right to reject the king," Buchanan boasts.

"We have the right to our land," Hobbit Guy squeaks out like a duck with asthma. Who is this weirdo? I better have Welch run some additional checks.

A scroll is rolled out by a third grader who's wearing sneakers that don't go with his costume. Although they light up, so they'd match mine.

The forefathers all line up to sign the parchment. After about twenty boring lifetimes of this, I pick up the scroll and read it:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Everyone cheers.

The entire cast returns to the stage—including Cherry Tree Taylor—as we sing patriotic tunes. Tilly's beside herself. Only Ana and Kate remain off stage for the grand finale.

"There, overhead, that's what the colors of freedom look like," I say as I point to the heavens. Everyone looks up, anticipating Taylor's bold, bright patriotic fireworks show.

Nothing happens.

We keep singing, waiting.

"Does it look like fog?" my grandfather says.

"What's going on?" I whisper to Taylor, but just as I ask him, there's an explosion of green in the air. Not the most patriotic color, but it's a start. Then an explosion of... orange. Orange? No, maybe that's red. Like a light red with sunny undertones, and maybe the green is just a confused blue... Nope, there's more orange and fucking green!

"Why is it all orange and green?" I ask Taylor, who's turned around, trying to hide that he's talking on his phone—on the stage!

"Sir, there was a mistake," he whispers as he hangs up. "The fireworks were ordered through an Irish company."

"Irish? Who the hell orders fireworks from Ireland?"

"They do lovely holiday explosives, sir."

"This isn't lovely!" Shit, I was too loud. The Minute Men are staring up at me. "I mean, isn't this lovely," I say down to them. They look at me for a moment, but lose interest and focus on the fireworks again.

"It was a miscommunication, sir," Taylor says. "They were told we wanted the colors of the flag. I guess, they assumed their own."

What the fuck? "Well, that really tops off the show—we're celebrating another country's independence."

Thankfully, the kids just like the lights and the parents are all happy from the open bar. I change my mind—always have booze at school functions.

This is the big finale. Kate and Ana carry out the finished flag and I, as noble Whipple, take it from them to hold up, proud.

"We are now the United States of America!" I say, and then put the flag on it's pole. I press my sleeve to light my jacket, and I flash in red, white and blue. The crowd cheers.

I'm a one man electrical parade.

"Daddy, you're so pretty!" Phoebe says with a clap and giggle, which makes me smile. At least this stuff makes my kids happy. That's all that counts. I'm a fool for fatherhood, and a proud one at that.

Ana looks up to the sky as the kids sing some version of My Country 'Tis of Thee—some version. She's so beautiful, pointing to the fireworks as they light her face. Here's the big line she's been waiting for...

"My, oh my, oh my, oh my, ooooooh myyyyyyyy!" she yells out, so passionately. Damn, she went for the dramatic interpretation on that one. "Oh my oh my oh myyyyyy!"

Okay, she's not saying her line anymore.

"Ana, what is it?" I rush to her.

"Christian!" She turns to me, clutching her stomach. "You remember when I promised to tell you if I thought labor was about to begin."

"Yes," I say, alarmed.

"Well, it's definitely happening right now." She holds to her belly as she looks down and my eyes follow.

Holy fuck. There's a puddle of water at her feet— and it ain't the bloody tea.