She raced to the door, and slammed it open for Sadie. I reminded her again to hold onto her balloon, but she just kept running. We got to the lawn area, Sadie went off to do her business, and Britton asked me if she could let her balloon go. It went like this:
Britton: "Can I let go of my balloon, Mommy?"
Me: "If you let go of it, it will fly into the sky and you can't ever get it back."
Britton: "I want to let it go. I want it to fly up into the sky."
Me: "You can let it go if you want to, but just remember that it won't come back."
So, she let go and we watched it fly. Then, as every parent has predicted by now, SHE WANTED THE DAMN BALLOON BACK NOW. Tears, people, tears. Sobs. And watching it drift away, while poetic, just rubbed salt into the wound.
And that's when it occurred to me: this is raising a kid. You let them take the reigns, tell them what the results will be, and place the decision in their hands. And you hope for the best. And if it all goes to pot, if they make the wrong decision which kids are apt to do, you wipe away tears and offer hugs. All while pointing out that your way was the right way and why do you have to be so stubborn and prove me right again and again and again, and do it your way even if you know that it won't turn out well (the last part in my head, of course).
She asked me to buy her another princess balloon. I won't. Not to be mean, but Britton needs to learn that letting go of the balloon means the balloon goes away forever, so to speak. That decisions can be final. That consequences, both good and bad, follow.
P.S. If you've been reading since the beginning, you've just read my 501st post. Thanks for sticking with me. What started out as a way to keep far-away soon-to-be grandparents in the loop has turned into a scrapbook of sorts for Britton. There is no way I could have remembered it all, and I hope you've enjoyed my asinine stories as much as I've enjoyed writing them.
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