Who doesn’t love
balloons? They are colorful and festive. They make children smile. They are
bouncy and happy. Hating balloons is the approximate equivalent of hating
sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. And yet, I really, really hate balloons.
I haven’t always felt
this way. I wasn’t raised in a balloon-bigoted home. I even used to play with
balloons when I was a kid. I’m not blind to the balloon’s considerable charms.
But now that I have
three boys in my house, balloons represent something else entirely to me. When
I see a balloon now, I see LOUD.
I see boys smashing them
back and forth at each other, “playing” with the balloon. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
I see furniture smashing
as one of them dives for the balloon. CRASH. CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.
I see a dog barking as
she chases them back and forth, back and forth. BARK. BARK. BARK. BARK.
I see boys fighting over
which balloon is theirs. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.
I see balloons hitting
sharp corners or dog’s teeth. POP. POP. POP. POP.
I see children crying
after their balloons are popped. WAH. WAH. WAH. WAH.
I never realized this
before I had kids, but it’s literally impossible to play with balloons without
making an infernal racket. They look cute and wholesome and colorful, but they
are filled with more than just helium or air. They are filled with LOUD.
I fully understand that
admitting this publicly makes me some kind of an ogre, because every time I
privately express my opinions on this highly sensitive matter, people look at
me like I just torched a basket full of unicorns.
“You don’t like
balloons? That’s impossible. Everybody loves balloons.”
No, not everybody. There’s
at least one despicable person in the greater Chicagoland area that doesn’t.
“Don’t ask Mr. Kaempfer
to blow up your balloon, honey. He’s not one of us.”
That’s right, I’m not.
Now get that floaty ball of loud out of my sight.
###
My wife Bridget championed the idea of getting a dog when
our three boys were very young. I didn’t have a dog growing up, and didn’t have
the slightest idea how to train or care for one, so I must admit, I wasn’t
crazy about the idea. But after listening to her extol the virtues of pet
ownership for several months, I finally agreed.
“What the heck,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
As soon as I agreed, however, one of the boys would do
something like fall down the stairs or slam a brother into the wall or try to
eat a thumbtack.
“Maybe we should wait until they’re old enough to avoid
accidentally crushing or poisoning the dog,” I pointed out. Bridget agreed.
When we switched roles in our house a few years later (I
stayed at home while Bridget went to work), we somehow switched sides in the
dog debate.
I really started to think we should get one. I thought it would
teach the boys responsibility. Instead of agreeing with me, Bridget was
suddenly reluctant. We were discussing this at a family party, when my mother
tipped it in for me.
“Are you really thinking about getting a dog?” she asked. My
mother has always been deathly afraid of dogs.
I admitted we were.
“If you do, I’ll never visit you again,” she said.
We started our search the next day.
It was going to have to be a hypo-allergenic dog because our
oldest son Tommy is insanely allergic. A friend of ours suggested that poodles
were a good choice, so we looked at every conceivable poodle combination. The
boys giggled at each breed name.
“Fellas, this is a Peekapoo. What do you think?”
Tee hee.
“Boys, what do you think about a Cockapoo?”
Tee hee.
(Oh, “poo,” will you never cease to amuse us?)
After we put together a list of about ten or so funny
sounding breed names, we started checking out the area shelter websites every
week, hoping that one fitting our picky needs would become available.
There was one very close call a few weeks later. A nearby shelter got a perfect
dog, but while we were looking into what sort of gates and crates we needed to
buy, it was adopted by another family.
When we broke the news to the boys, we noticed that they
really weren’t disappointed in the slightest. It made us realize that we hadn’t
considered one important factor: the boys didn’t even seem to want a dog.
We were discussing this at a neighborhood party with some
friends; many of whom are enthusiastic dog owners.
“Just tell them it’s like having another little brother!”
one woman said.
“I don’t know if that’s the best way to pitch it,” I pointed
out.
“You have to get one!” she said. “It’s just like having
another baby.”
“Except this one will never grow up,” her husband added.
“Imagine having an infant for fifteen years.”
Bridget and I exchanged glances, and we both immediately
knew this discussion was never going to come up again.
Maybe we’ll get some fish.
###
P.S. Two weeks after this article was published, this little lady joined our family. Her name was Ivy.
