Of Red Balloons and Childish Delight

The balloon is, I'm fairly sure, made its way to the trash, its poor, limp, slightly wrinkled and very much deflated exterior belying its fleeting glory. Forgotten, it will find its way to some dump, in which it will likely decompose ever so slowly. I'll probably remember its heyday as long as it takes that balloon to finally disappear into the great abyss (or wherever such stuff goes) even though Reed very likely won't. And that's okay, because that's the very reason for this blog.

After a brief foray into that bastion of superstores, Babies R Us, Shelly, Jackson (Reed's new BFF) and I emerged, desperate to get out of there and trolling for some food. (For the record, I needed butt paste that's not sold anywhere else that I know of, and socks. Triple Paste -- it does a booty good, and at 30 bucks a container, it's a good thing it does). Reed had recently begun to sound his warning, his "Done!" translating roughly to I'm going to absolutely flip, or tiz out (as we call it round these parts) if you don't take me out of this shopping cart and let me run around and wreak havoc right. this. very. instance.

The alternative? Leaving quickly, and so we did. We headed to Ritchie's Diner a 50s joint that I'd briefly worked at when I was 19 (I was let go for rather vague reasons, one of which was that I hadn't "toned down" my makeup as the proprietor had wished me to do, and the harlot red lipstick of which I'm still terribly fond but usually without wasn't going to go anywhere). Still, they've got good, greasy eats, and a giant candy store in the front. I figured Reed and Jackson could amuse themselves with the old-fashioned candy sticks at some point, and that they'd be safe enough as neither of them have any idea what candy is. Or, as evidenced later, that it's for eating rather than whacking others with it. This is a good thing.

Having gotten settled, which is a slightly more daunting task, I've realized, with two babies, we set about figuring out what we wanted, which, it turned out, was everything fried and nothing healthy. Being that paragon of virtue I am, I order Reed some zucchini and plain chicken. Many of the servers came by to coo over the cuteness, and a busser came bustling out with several ballons for the boys, one of which promptly escaped its string as Jackson went to town. Fetched him another one, and watched as Jackson went for Reed's coveted model -- red, white hearts, which anybody knows is better than clear/multi-colored hearts. Guess the Valentine's theme was going strong. These balloons came at exactly the right time, interrupting Reed's approaching meltdown over not being able to eat Jackson's crackers, verboten delights containing wheat and gluten. Nothing else could compete for Reed's attention at the moment he zeroed in on his treasure, and if you know Reed, you know that nothing, but nothing distracts this one from food. Until now. Until a red balloon came his way, and he batted his new treasure, the "red bawoon," ignoring us as we split a shake and fried stuff, placidly, occasionally, eating his rather boring dinner as he considered his prize.

We finished, and as expected, the boys found the candy sticks and proceeded to fence, we paid, and mama bought a few (uh, for her unhealthy self, not the baby) and headed to the cars. We got home a bit late (meaning it was after 6, Reed's close to bedtime), and I rather naively assumed my peaceful, quite son, so content on the way home, red bawoon now tied to his sweatshirt zipper, would stay that way, and I would take his dreamy self to the rocker. He'd pass out in a few short minutes. Not so. The lion awoke with a roar as we pulled into the garage.

"Dada! Bawoon! Dada, dada! Red bawoooon!".

"You want to show dada your balloon ... ahem, before you go to BED?"

"Show dada bawoooon! Show dada socks!"

And so it was. After dada was "shown" the bawoon and socks (particularly the red ones) 30,000 times, I finally got him down. And though he didn't go to bed easily or quickly, the sight of him twirling around and around ("doing circle!" "do again!" "do over!") the living room, overtired and bursting with radiance, eyes upturned and balloon in hand, has etched itself in my memory in a way no tantrum or missed nap or late bedtime ever could.