I’ve always had lots of energy, can get by on little sleep, (though not as easily in my 30’s), and can make lemonade out of lemons.
But, I had a moment this week. By moment, I mean, a meltdown, a testing of the patience, a who-am-I-and-what-happened-to-the-person-known-as-myself, a…oh, who am I kidding, I snapped. Plain and simple. And I blame it on two things. Not the boys. Nope, instead I’m embarrassed to say my nerves became unraveled by two innocent balloon animals.
How sad it that?
The kids received them while out at Kid’s Night, a local restaurant who offers free face-painting by a clown who twists tubes of air into fancy little poodles, oversized cowboy hats, or any other creation of your choice.
It’s just enough to please the boys, which inevitably pleases the parents no doubt, and so it goes. We’ve done this for weeks, every Monday, a family of four mosies in looking tired and hungry, and leaves smiling, with painted faces, full bellies and balloon animals in hand.
And then the incident happened.
During our drive home, the kids were simply holding on to their balloons and each time they moved their body, the balloons would SQUEAK about every six seconds. Every little move they made, I could hear it. Squeak…squeak…and then an even longer squeak. They tossed the balloons in the air, squeak some more, they would teasingly take them from each other, (insert more squeaking here,) and there just aren’t enough words to describe the irritation. It was like nails on a chalkboard, or being forced to watch somebody pour a cup of Starbucks coffee down the drain. I’m certain a Vanilla Ice cd would have been more pleasant to the ears.
Finally, I couldn’t take it. I HAD to get out of there.
Except I was in a car and that wasn’t an option. So, I took a deep breath, told the boys with a plastered-on June Cleaver smile that those beloved little balloons needed to sit quietly in their laps, or…
Momma would POP them.
And we all lived happily ever after.