I am afraid of balloons. Okay, that sounds crazy. I am not afraid of the balloon itself, but more the many noises a balloon makes. Call it sensitive ears or just a weird tick, but the squeaking, rubbing, thumping, popping noises send me into a panic. Its a nails-on-the-chalk-board kinda sound to me. My whole life I have run from balloons. Seriously, a waitress went to hand me a balloon when I was just a little girl, and I ran out of the restaurant hysterical.
My kids love balloons. Love balloons. If there is a stronger word for love, then that would describe how much they go crazy for my worst nightmare. I have been asking what they want for their up-coming birthday, their response, "BALLOONS!" The Publix staff knows us well. (Probably because we are there every other day because some how food just disappears in our house) They love Gavin and Breiden. They see my sweet, blue-eyed boys and think, "Now, they need balloons" I know to dodge certain employees because they will insist on giving my kids each a balloon. But as much as I HATE balloons, I love to see my kids with that balloon drunk-love look on their face. Today, we got balloons.
My shoulders may be a little tense, but I had two very happy kids today. That is, until Breiden's enviably popped, which brought a brief whining and mourning period over the lost blue polka dot balloon. I had to blow up a new balloon from our hidden stash. So, not only did I put up with balloons all day, but I actually blew one up my self. I don't think any one understands or believes how horrible this was for me. Fiona joined in on the torture-mommy-party and discovered she was a balloon lover too.
This is a fear that a mom just isn't allowed to have. Balloons and kids go hand in hand. So I gladly clench my teeth and live on edge for a day so my kids can play with their first love.