All Because of a Balloon

I thought Tuesday was going to be a normal day; instead, it was filled with surprises. At the supermarket, one of the assistant managers gave Robert a helium-filled balloon weighed down by a sucker on the end of a string.

Happily, my four year-old clutched the string to his balloon as I put him and the non-perishable groceries in the car. As I shut the door, I never noticed the balloon wasn't inside the car; not until we were zooming down the interstate, and the sunshine yellow colored orb passed me with a thwat before sailing toward the heavens.

"I'm sorry baby," I apologized, glancing in the rearview mirror at Robert's shocked expression. He didn't say a word as we pulled into the parking lot of Fantastic Sam's. I helped him out of the car seat, and as we walked toward the hair salon, I wondered why he was bringing the grimy string, now absent a balloon. I soon found out.


I was signing the waiting list when Robert, his body rigid with indignation, pointed his finger at me at yelled, "Take my mommy to jail. She's a killer."

I felt as if the room was spinning out of control, and I grabbed the counter for support. Time seemed to freeze as everyone stared at me with a deer-in-the-headlight look. "Why do you say that honey?" my hairdresser, Vonnie asked, eyeing me warily.

"Do you see this?" Robert demanded, holding up the grimy string. "There used to a balloon on here, but Mommy killed it."

Everyone in the room heaved a collective sigh as they realized what Robert meant; everyone relaxed, but me. "Relax sweetheart, we all know what he meant," Vonnie chuckled as she washed my hair. Yeah, it's easy for you to relax, you're not me, I thought as my over-active imagination spun out of control.

The door is open. What is someone was passing by and only heard the "Take my mommy to jail. She's a killer." part and called the police. What if there was a murder, and now I'm a suspect? I imagined the FBI hiding in the parking lot of Wal-Mart and yelling "Swarm! Swarm!" knocking me to the ground as I walked out of the store with my purchases, cuffing me, shoving me in the car and driving away as Robert, still sitting in the basket, waved a tearful good-bye. How will John introduce me after I finished my prison term? Would he say "my wife the convict," instead of "my wife the writer"?

"You know," Vonnie said as she dried my hair and led my to a chair, "all of us here have kids. No one took him seriously."

"You sure?"

"Positive." she smiled.

I sighed and relaxed, as Vonnie, a Picasso with scissors, finished my hair. After I paid, I led a still brooding Robert out into the parking lot. "Hey mister," he called to a man walking past. "My mommy is a--"

Faster than a hummingbird can fly, I jerked open the truck door, belted Robert into his seat, and drove away, hopefully avoiding being on America's Most Wanted for a little while longer.