“A balloon!” “Please!” “A balloon, Dada!”
It’s the demand my two year old toddler makes every Saturday when my husband takes him out to eat. The tradition started about a year ago, right after Reichen decided big boys don’t need a morning nap. Ever since, my breakfast boys go out once a week, every week and stuff their faces with all the fatty foods I refuse to feed them at home. Reichen’s favorite: hashbrowns. When he comes home, Reichen babbles on and on about the fried vegetable; it’s his second favorite subject when explaining his A-M escapades with Dada. His first favorite: his balloon – his pink balloon.
Pink is the color my husband, David, says our toddler picks every time. Since I’ve never been there for the official color selection, I have to take David’s word for it. You see, our little boy has never actually made it home with his piece of helium heaven – never. David says he looses it every week in the exact same way: he lets it go. With one hand in my husband’s and the other holding the ribbon attached to his prized possession, he uncurls his tight little fist and lets it fly. “Bye balloon,” he wails. “Bye, bye balloon.”
David is never really sad to see it go. He says he cringes when the waitress asks our son what color he wants. There could be a huge balloon bouquet and every time Reichen picks pink. Pink! David swears he hears all the other dads snickering. I told him all the other dads don’t care. They’re too busy begging their kids not to fling food or reminding them not to run in the restaurant. I told him if the kid wants pink, let him pick pink! David does, but I know it’s hard for him.
Reichen is just a toddler. I’m not ready to force society’s rules of what it means to be male down his throat. He’ll have to take a bitter bite of reality soon enough. In the meantime, I think I’m skipping Latham’s morning nap this Saturday and all four of us can go to breakfast. And when the waitress asks what color balloon I want, I’m picking blue.
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