It was recently my grandma’s 80th birthday.
The girls helped my mom put together a very fun, very laidback party. There were streamers, takeout Chinese food, cake and of course, balloons.
The girls asked if they could bring the balloons home afterward. All of them.
I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no.
And so we hauled fifteen balloons home in the backseat of our car, obstructing Daddy’s rearview mirror as we drove down the interstate.
When we got home, I heard the girls sneak into the junk drawer, rifling through used lip gloss compacts, binder clips, expired coupons and empty CD cases to find the highly coveted, highly forbidden objects of their desire:
And then, for no less than an hour and a half, the girls began to christen our new family members.
Loved ones like Shirly.
Her hair is curly.
And then there’s, Hairy. (not Harry)
Because, man, is he hairy.
Let me introduce you to Amanda.
Have you seen Mr. Big Eyes?
Because, he can totally see you.
I just go gaga for Baby Jonh.
Sweet Baby Alternative Spelling Jonh.
Then there’s good old Larry.
Do you know why he’s Larry?
Me neither. But somehow, it suits him.
But, Bethany, what about Bob?
There’s the very seasonal Jack. Specifically, Mr. Jack O’ Lantern.
Looking scary, Jack.
And last but not least, Mr. Tired Man.
Which is kind of how I looked when my alarm went off this morning.
Minus the green eye shadow.
I came to love these new members of our family. They were quiet. They entertained my children endlessly. They were free.
And then the day came when they started to shrivel. When company was coming over. When I began to resent having them underfoot.
The girls went off to school, leaving me at home.
And then there was a terrible “accident.”
It involved some scissors I found in the Sharpie drawer.
I don’t want to talk about it.
May God have mercy on my soul.
Or at least bless us with balloons again very soon.