They Call me the Executioner. For Balloons.
When I was three or four years old, I swindled my mom into buying me a Ziggy balloon. Remember Ziggy? I know, right? I forgot about him too until I started thinking about how intensely I now hate balloons. Hate ‘em, with a fiery passion deep in my soul.
Breathe, count to ten. Refocus.
So I got this Ziggy balloon, and I refused to let my mom tie it to my wrist because I was a big girl. She tried to talk me out of this decision, but I was firm about wanting to hold it myself. You see where this is heading, don’t you? If you predicted that I would let go of my precious Ziggy balloon and lose it in dramatic fashion, you’d be absolutely right. It flew out of the car and into the sky when we arrived home from the mall. Understandably, I absolutely lost my shit.
Like I do when my kids are losing their minds about something minor that can’t be fixed, my mom put me in the family room and retreated away from me into the kitchen while I finished my freak-out.
Several minutes into my screaming, the phone rang. My mom answered our kitchen phone, which was rotary, attached to the wall, and had a spiral stretchy cord. Yowza, I’m just giving my age away all over this post. On the other end was our next door neighbor who said, “What kind of mother are you!?! Sandee has been screaming uncontrollably in the backyard for ten minutes and you haven’t even checked on her once!”
Apparently this is when I figured out how to open the back door, unlock the screen and make my way out to the backyard (which was at least fenced), to continue screaming into the sky for Ziggy to return home.
He never did. The ass.
This, however, is not why I hate balloons now.
I believe this is a hatred that goes hand in hand with motherhood. These stupid, cheap pieces of choke-able rubber or never dying Mylar add crap to trip over, and nearly always end in tears.
The kid pops it, the kid cries.
It was filled with helium yesterday & on the floor today, the kid cries.
The kid lets it go and it flies away, the kid cries.
You execute it after bedtime (which is my chosen method of disposal), the kid remembers in the morning and cries.
No matter the form of demise, the kid friggin cries.
I don’t need more tears in my life. I need less balloons.
Incidentally, after the Ziggy incident, my mom never bought me another balloon from the mall. Not that I’m bitter or anything.Everything else by Sandee Harned