Oh, balloons. The timeless symbol of childhood whimsy. Carefree, floating in air. We have a love/hate relationship, don’t we?
love: my kids’ abundant smiles when they walk into a room full of you.
hate: the snotty tears I have to deal with at bedtime when they must leave you.
love: a festive, helium inflated bundle of birthday fun.
hate: your sad, deflated remnants in every blasted corner of my house.
Maybe I’ve grown cynical in my old age, but you’re not what you used to be. See, it’s my son. He cried and cried and cried because of you. When he was supposed to be in bed, asleep. Anything that messes with my kids’ bedtime is no friend of mine. Me and you, balloons, we need to have a few words.
I know, it’s Buzz. I can’t blame you entirely. It also didn’t help that my husband picked the absolute worst time to begin the tragic act of popping a few of your multi-colored diminished brethren. But that night at bedtime, you should have seen my son’s face. It was like we shot his puppy.
The next morning, Buzz’s face returned a smile again when he noticed the rest of you were all still here. No, my husband couldn’t do what he was supposed to do and discard of you while my son was sleeping. So now, I have to deal with you all over my floor, in every step I take, for yet another day. You’re everywhere, balloons. It’s like you’re mocking me.
So I’ll deal with you for another day. Do you hear me, balloons? Just one more. Enjoy yourself while you can, because tonight we’re done. Kaput. Over and out. Until the next birthday, anyway.