Death by Balloon

When I was a kid, going to the supermarket with my mom was something I tried my best to avoid. Now, though, the game has changed.

Driven by competitive fever to corner the mom market, our local Kroger has made itself into a veritable carnival of pleasures for the under ten set. Samples of store-baked pies, cakes, and premium fruits are scattered throughout the produce section. Free cookies are available in the bakery. Special carts are outfitted with child-sized race cars for the kids to “drive” through the store. Stickers await the well-behaved at checkout.

But all of these wonders apparently aren’t enough. Oh no. In yet another effort to thumb its nose at the Publix across the street, Kroger has decided to take its kid-friendliness to eleven. The result?

A basket of balloons awaiting children at the exit, each one anchored by a lollipop.

A basket of freaking balloons.

Not much makes my kids happier than balloons, but for me, they’re a nightmare. Because while my six-year-old daughter is good about keeping her balloon within her own personal space in the backseat, my three-year-old son is another story.

He spends his time hugging his balloon. Biting his balloon. Rubbing his balloon with his grubby little hands and producing unbearably squeaky balloon noises while I cringe, waiting for the inevitable POP. But that’s not even the worst part. Despite my many warnings and threats, Bruiser always, always, always allows his balloon to roam into the front seat, where it floats in the face of whomever is driving.

We’ve taken Bruiser’s balloons away when that’s happened, of course, and shaken our fingers at him and sworn up and down he’ll never bring another balloon home again.

But try keeping that promise when you’ve got a cart full of groceries and a three-year-old boy who will surely throw a tantrum of crowd-drawing proportions if his sister is allowed to have a balloon and he is not.

“I be a good boy this time, Mommy,” he assured me yesterday afternoon with an angelic smile when the Kroger cashier asked if the kids wanted balloons. “I keep my balloon wif me. One more chance. Peeeeeees?”

Two minutes later, I was headed out to the car with my cart, my kids, and two bobbing balloons.

Once we’d loaded up and gotten moving, it seemed at first like the short drive home would be uneventful. The children played quietly with their balloons in the backseat and I rolled down my window, enjoying the warm, sunny day. I smiled to myself, thinking about what a pleasant afternoon this was turning out to be. And that’s when I was assaulted.

Without warning, Bruiser’s balloon whipped around my face and out the window. With Bruiser still holding tight to one end of the ribbon and the wind pummeling the balloon outside my car by the other end, the ribbon drew tight across my open mouth like a gag, pulling the sides of my mouth back in a Joker-like grimace.

“AAAAAACHGHHHHCKKK!” I screamed, swerving as I tried to pull the balloon back inside with one hand and steer with the other.

THE BALLOON WAS TRYING TO KILL ME.

My life flashed before my eyes, ending with the news report that I imagined would air that night. “A suburban mom was gagged and killed by a rogue balloon while on the way home from Kroger this afternoon.”

Death by balloon. What a stupid way to die. And what would the witnesses say who were passing me now in their cars on the other side of the road? “I seed her with that balloon pullin’ her mouth back all crazy like. She was screamin’ bloody murder. I’ll never forgit it. No sir.” How embarrassing. I simply couldn’t let it happen.

Summoning my reserves, I desperately yanked at the ribbon as hard as I could and somehow, miraculously, managed to pull the balloon back inside the car.

“WHAT THE HELL!” I yelled, panting for breath as I angrily batted the balloon into the backseat. I couldn’t think of anything better to say, so I said it again. “WHAT. THE. HELL.”

Punky gasped.

“Why you say what the hell, Mommy?” Bruiser asked from the backseat. “Why you say that?”

“Because your balloon nearly killed me that’s why!!” I said. “I am very mad at you, Bruiser!”

“Oh,” he said. There was a moment or two of silence as I rubbed the corners of my mouth.

“Can I have fruit snacks when we get home, Mommy?” Bruiser asked. I said nothing. “Peeeeees? Can I?”

“Okay,” I said quietly.

“What?” he said. “What you said?”

“I said okay.” My children weren’t showing the kind of concern that I felt the situation warranted. But I knew my husband would. I told him about my near-death experience last night after he got home from work.

“I almost died,” I ended. “Literally. For a minute there, I thought that balloon would be the end of me.”

And then, my husband did something very strange. He laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

“You’re such a dork,” he said. “I can totally see something dorky like that happening to you.”

“You wouldn’t be laughing if I were dead right now,” I muttered.

Death by balloon.

Mothers? BE WARNED.

Keep up with all the Suburban Turmoil by following us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest.