Wednesday, August 26, 2009
I'm afraid of balloons. Even as a kid, the thought of holding one, even if attached to an extremely long and distancing string, was an anxiety attack full of helium that I'd run from, kicking and screaming at the very tip top of my lungs. Same thing goes (notice that's not past tense, I'm still VERY much a wimp at times) for fireworks, biscuits in a tube, pop rocks. All things that can at any given time, without warning (and will), explode. Luckily, now that we're gluten free, I can say with a fair amount of certainty that I'll never have to open another tube of biscuits as long as I live. But my daughter, who I'm not sure has ever heard one pop, simply adores balloons.
Last time we came home from the book store, she sat in the backseat bouncing her green balloon all over the place, singing songs, making the balloon dance (something I taught her to do). While I sat in the front seat, driving white knuckled and holding my breath for minutes at a time, squinting at any and every sound, anticipating the big POP. It never happened, we made it home safely, heart failure avoided. I kept glancing up into the rearview mirror to see the smile on her face, which is probably what reminded me to breathe.
I, myself, would have never brought the balloon into the car with me. I would have given it away to another kid, or "forgotten" it back at the store. On the 4th of July I hold giant pillows in front of my body to protect me from the BOOMS and BANGS. I might be able to tolerate pop rocks again, but the memory of that extra loud SMACK that took place in the center of my mouth, orange flavored, when I was five or so, will never escape me.
But for her...
I can pretend to love a balloon.