Balloons

Every so often, I take my boys someplace-- the chirpractor, the fair, Nana's house-- where they are offered balloons. Balloons are cheap. They are colorful. Kids are just attracted to them somehow. And so, of course, they seem to be everywhere.

Whenever someone asks me if my kid can have a balloon, internally I cringe. The very thought of touching that latex/rubber material; or feeling it rub against my skin; or hearing it rubbing against someone or something else, sends shivers down my spine. It just...gives me the willies.

But then, I remember how much I used to love balloons as a kid. I remember watching helium-filled balloons floating up through the sky, my eyes fixated until the balloon finally disappeared to my view. I remember drawing funny faces with Sharpies and pretending my balloons were people. I remember sometimes I would get a helium-filled balloon, and after a couple of days the helium would be leaking out, but there would still be just enough left so that the balloon would drift very slowly and kind of hover in midair; I always thought that was pretty fascinating.

I remember how much I used to love balloons, and I think about all the fun my own kids would miss if I never allowed a balloon into my house. And so, when someone offers my boy a balloon, I hide my aversion and accept the offering with a smile. And my son says "thank you" with a huge grin on his face. All the way home, he holds tight to the balloon string; he cries momentarily if the balloon floats up to the ceiling and he can't reach; he wants to eat with his balloon tied to his chair; he wants to sleep with his balloon resting somewhere where he can see it all night.

Then, come morning, my son usually takes a look at his balloon and says, "Mommy, I want to pop it!" And I am all too eager to find a pin...