If you give a child a balloon…

I hate balloons.  I hate, I HATE balloons. 

If you give a child a balloon he might smile…for a minute.  I mean, if it’s a full minute that’s amazing, because usually within a few seconds something goes REALLY wrong. 

The siblings.  Rarely are there balloons to go around for all the children so usually one child doesn’t get one.  That’s where it begins, “Waaaaa I want a balloon too….”  So mom now has one gloating child and other crying children and always in a public place.  Mommy puts on her happy face and begin consoling, instructing, encouraging, disciplining, threatening…  I hate balloons.

The thumping.  If by some miracle there are enough balloons to go around, mommy holds her breath until the next problem.  Mom is trying to do shopping or visit with friends while children are all thump, thump, thumping the balloons.  How can one THINK like this?  I hate balloons.

The escape.  Never, ever, ever can we get all the way back home and into the house with all the evil objects.  Inevitably one sails up, up, up into the beautiful, quiet abyss that is not Mom’s world.  “Waaaaa!”  Once again Mommy puts on her happy face, though it’s not as convincing this time, and consoles, instructs, encourages.  I hate balloons.

The car ride.  If by a further miracle balloons are still in tact, as if there hadn’t been enough torture already, there is the car ride home.  “She’s touching my balloon!”  “He stole my balloon!” “She’s putting her balloon so I can’t see, ON PURPOSE!” “Stop it.  She’s making my hair stand up!” Then of course there’s more thump, thump, thumping.  I hate balloons.

The next escape.  If balloons remain to this point, we’re all a scary mess, but never, and I mean never is it possible to open the car doors to get out without a balloon getting blown out into the street.  Children lose their heads and go chasing them through the street, unavoidably falling and skinning their knees, in the middle of the street!  True story.  More crying children. I hate balloons.

The pop.  Yes, of course, eventually they pop, either by accident or by a child with a suspicious grin left on his face.   More tears.  Please, make it stop!  I hate balloons. 

The fright.  On a rare occasion a balloon survives the day.  Children go to bed happy.  Mom takes a stress less pill, and combs her additional gray hairs.  Sleep comes.  A cry in the night sends Mom up the stairs and through the dark house in search of her crying baby when, WHAM she slams into a ghost right in the middle of her usually clear hallway.  Argggg! I hate balloons.  I hate, I HATE balloons!