Lost Balloons
Tonight, my daughter lost a balloon.
We were at a school activity for my son, and as we prepared to go home, both children begged for a helium-filled balloon. There was only a handful of them left, so we ambled over to the biggest bunch and asked if we could have a couple. The PTA helper smiled and handed me a pair of orange-handled scissors so I could snip off a purple one for Baby Girl and a blue one for Sweet Boy. Both kids squealed with delight as I handed them their balloons and thanked the PTA helper for obliging us.
Before we walked away, I turned and bent down to speak seriously to my children. "Okay, guys. If you lose your balloon, we can't come back for another one, so hold on tight. Don't let them float away." This was followed by choruses of, "I won't!" and "I'll hold on super tight!" I smiled and felt a little twinge in my heart as I watched their joy, praying that they could keep hold of these little bits of latex they suddenly treasured above all their other earthly possessions.
We made our way back to the car. Baby Girl asked if I could tie her balloon to her wrist, but I let her know that, if we did, we'd have to cut the ribbon even shorter to get it off. She looked at the ribbon, already pretty short, and decided she'd rather leave it as long as she could.
Sweet Boy got in the car and I went to adjust Baby Girl's car seat. Suddenly, I heard a scream from behind me. I whirled around and my heart dropped as I saw her little face turned up at the sky in horror. I hadn't seen the balloon yet, but I instinctively grabbed upward as I turned my own eyes to the darkening sky. I was too late. She bawled and yelled for her "balloony" to come back. For a moment, I was torn between a feeling of exasperation (which, admittedly, was rooted in my own sense of failure at not helping her keep her balloon safe), and a deep sadness and helplessness of my own.
With tears streaming down her face and sobs racking her small body, Sweet Girl started to run back toward the school. I called after her to ask what she was doing and she said, "I'm going to get another balloon!" I ran after her, playing chase for a moment to see if it would cheer her up. It didn't. I scooped her into my arms and she continued to sob. I told her I needed to put her in the car while I tried to finish adjusting her car seat. When she asked why, I told her that I couldn't have her running off again. She promised to stay put. I hesitated for a moment, and then decided to trust her. She sat down on the sidewalk and buried her face in her hands, continuing to cry with a deep, heart-wrenching pain.
I watched her for a few seconds, my own heart feeling a bit bruised and cracked. As I turned back to finish buckling in her car seat, I could sense that I had an important opportunity before me. I could do what my parents had most often done when I was a child, which was try to get me to stop crying either by offering some sort of replacement or distraction, or by shaming me for being so upset over something so little.
Or...
Or I could honor her pain. After all, I felt some of it too. I felt the sadness, the helplessness, the loss of the moment. Although I have 25 years more experience with grief than Sweet Girl does, her pain was very BIG to me in that moment. I was suddenly reminded of several losses I've experienced over the years and how poignant those things have been for me. Just last night, I was grieving an old loss and was afraid that someone would try to take that grief from me by shaming me or distracting me yet again. However foolish my pain might be to someone else, I cannot heal unless I honor it at the depth to which it actually affects me.
So I chose to honor my daughter's pain over a lost balloon tonight.
I finished buckling her car seat into the car (I had to hook one of the straps to a spot in the trunk), and she wandered over to me as I sat in the open hatchback of our tiny car. She was still shuddering from the sobs that had overtaken her slight frame only moments before. Her face was dark and tear-stained. I held out my arms and she climbed up onto my lap. She lay there and started crying hard again. I kissed the top of her head and let my heart be heavy as her tears dripped onto my body.
"Sometimes, when we lose something special to us, it hurts our hearts..."
"Balloony wasn't just special, Mom. He was really, really special. My heart is breaking."
"I know, Baby Girl. I know. I'm so sorry."
"It hurts even more because we can't go back and get another one."
I was briefly tempted to try to get another one. To promise her that we could go to the store tomorrow and get another one. But I somehow knew that she needed to feel this loss and she needed to know that I was here with her.
"I know, sweetheart. That makes it even sadder. I'm sorry. It's going to be sad for a while. I'm sad too. And I love you. I'm here to be sad with you. Should we go home and snuggle on the couch together?"
She paused for a moment and then nodded. "Yeah, let's go home and snuggle on the couch."
I helped her down to the asphalt and gave her another hug. She climbed into the car and got buckled, tears still trickling down her cheeks. Sweet Boy sat in his own car seat, watching her quietly. As we drove away from the school, he promised her that he'd give her an extra balloon on his birthday because she'd lost hers tonight. My heart melted.
"Thank you, Son. That is so kind. That shows how much you love her."
Baby Girl mumbled through her tears that it didn't make it better. His birthday was too far away.
"You're right, sweetheart. It doesn't make it all better. Nothing can make it all better right now. It will be sad for a while. But one thing you do know now is that you have people who love you and are here for you even when you're sad."
She sniffled, looking thoughtful, and replied, "Yeah..."
I thought for a moment and said, "Do you want me to tell you about a time when I lost something very, very special to me?"
She paused briefly and then replied that she did. So I told her about the time when my little dog, my sweet little friend, died from cancer. I told her that my heart felt like it was breaking. I told her I had prayed that Heavenly Father would help my dog get better, but that didn't happen. I told her that I was sad for a long time, but that I also had a few people who loved me and chose to be sad with me. They didn't tell me to stop being sad, they held me while I cried and I knew that they loved me - it didn't make it all better, but it helped me.
I told her that one of those people was her dad. She smiled at that.
We got home and Baby Girl cried a little bit more. After a minute or two, she decided she wanted to play a game on her tablet. She asked me to sit with her, and we snuggled and took turns playing one of her favorite games. She was still sad, but I could tell that she felt safe with me - safe enough to cry, safe enough to admit that her heart was broken, safe enough to trust me to be there whether she was sad or happy, safe enough to trust me to understand and let her grieve. Safe enough to find the bottom of her grief and discover that she's strong enough to handle it, in part because she knows that people who love her will help her if she needs it.
This is one of the big lessons I missed when I was a kid. I didn't feel safe to take my broken heart to anyone, so I lied to myself about it. I didn't let myself feel the pain because I was afraid that I would discover it was a bottomless pit that would consume and kill me. I didn't have anyone willing to sit with me while I found the bottom of my grief and help me pick myself up.
I have people who are helping me with that now, and I'm so very grateful for them. It is because of them that I am coming to know God as a loving, involved, and teaching Father. I want very much for my children to know Him, at least in part, through me. And this is one way I can do that. By sitting with my children and holding their broken hearts, whether the breaks are caused by lost balloons, other people's actions, or their own mistakes. I want them to know that no pain is too small for their mom or their Father to brush off, nor is any pain too big for them to survive with help from those who love them. I want them to know they can come to me and to Him with anything and He and I will listen and be sad or happy or frustrated right along with them.
I want my kids to feel safe letting me hold their broken hearts when they can't hold them anymore. And I want them to feel safe letting their Father do that too.
We were at a school activity for my son, and as we prepared to go home, both children begged for a helium-filled balloon. There was only a handful of them left, so we ambled over to the biggest bunch and asked if we could have a couple. The PTA helper smiled and handed me a pair of orange-handled scissors so I could snip off a purple one for Baby Girl and a blue one for Sweet Boy. Both kids squealed with delight as I handed them their balloons and thanked the PTA helper for obliging us.
Before we walked away, I turned and bent down to speak seriously to my children. "Okay, guys. If you lose your balloon, we can't come back for another one, so hold on tight. Don't let them float away." This was followed by choruses of, "I won't!" and "I'll hold on super tight!" I smiled and felt a little twinge in my heart as I watched their joy, praying that they could keep hold of these little bits of latex they suddenly treasured above all their other earthly possessions.
We made our way back to the car. Baby Girl asked if I could tie her balloon to her wrist, but I let her know that, if we did, we'd have to cut the ribbon even shorter to get it off. She looked at the ribbon, already pretty short, and decided she'd rather leave it as long as she could.
Sweet Boy got in the car and I went to adjust Baby Girl's car seat. Suddenly, I heard a scream from behind me. I whirled around and my heart dropped as I saw her little face turned up at the sky in horror. I hadn't seen the balloon yet, but I instinctively grabbed upward as I turned my own eyes to the darkening sky. I was too late. She bawled and yelled for her "balloony" to come back. For a moment, I was torn between a feeling of exasperation (which, admittedly, was rooted in my own sense of failure at not helping her keep her balloon safe), and a deep sadness and helplessness of my own.
With tears streaming down her face and sobs racking her small body, Sweet Girl started to run back toward the school. I called after her to ask what she was doing and she said, "I'm going to get another balloon!" I ran after her, playing chase for a moment to see if it would cheer her up. It didn't. I scooped her into my arms and she continued to sob. I told her I needed to put her in the car while I tried to finish adjusting her car seat. When she asked why, I told her that I couldn't have her running off again. She promised to stay put. I hesitated for a moment, and then decided to trust her. She sat down on the sidewalk and buried her face in her hands, continuing to cry with a deep, heart-wrenching pain.
I watched her for a few seconds, my own heart feeling a bit bruised and cracked. As I turned back to finish buckling in her car seat, I could sense that I had an important opportunity before me. I could do what my parents had most often done when I was a child, which was try to get me to stop crying either by offering some sort of replacement or distraction, or by shaming me for being so upset over something so little.
Or...
Or I could honor her pain. After all, I felt some of it too. I felt the sadness, the helplessness, the loss of the moment. Although I have 25 years more experience with grief than Sweet Girl does, her pain was very BIG to me in that moment. I was suddenly reminded of several losses I've experienced over the years and how poignant those things have been for me. Just last night, I was grieving an old loss and was afraid that someone would try to take that grief from me by shaming me or distracting me yet again. However foolish my pain might be to someone else, I cannot heal unless I honor it at the depth to which it actually affects me.
So I chose to honor my daughter's pain over a lost balloon tonight.
I finished buckling her car seat into the car (I had to hook one of the straps to a spot in the trunk), and she wandered over to me as I sat in the open hatchback of our tiny car. She was still shuddering from the sobs that had overtaken her slight frame only moments before. Her face was dark and tear-stained. I held out my arms and she climbed up onto my lap. She lay there and started crying hard again. I kissed the top of her head and let my heart be heavy as her tears dripped onto my body.
"Sometimes, when we lose something special to us, it hurts our hearts..."
"Balloony wasn't just special, Mom. He was really, really special. My heart is breaking."
"I know, Baby Girl. I know. I'm so sorry."
"It hurts even more because we can't go back and get another one."
I was briefly tempted to try to get another one. To promise her that we could go to the store tomorrow and get another one. But I somehow knew that she needed to feel this loss and she needed to know that I was here with her.
"I know, sweetheart. That makes it even sadder. I'm sorry. It's going to be sad for a while. I'm sad too. And I love you. I'm here to be sad with you. Should we go home and snuggle on the couch together?"
She paused for a moment and then nodded. "Yeah, let's go home and snuggle on the couch."
I helped her down to the asphalt and gave her another hug. She climbed into the car and got buckled, tears still trickling down her cheeks. Sweet Boy sat in his own car seat, watching her quietly. As we drove away from the school, he promised her that he'd give her an extra balloon on his birthday because she'd lost hers tonight. My heart melted.
"Thank you, Son. That is so kind. That shows how much you love her."
Baby Girl mumbled through her tears that it didn't make it better. His birthday was too far away.
"You're right, sweetheart. It doesn't make it all better. Nothing can make it all better right now. It will be sad for a while. But one thing you do know now is that you have people who love you and are here for you even when you're sad."
She sniffled, looking thoughtful, and replied, "Yeah..."
I thought for a moment and said, "Do you want me to tell you about a time when I lost something very, very special to me?"
She paused briefly and then replied that she did. So I told her about the time when my little dog, my sweet little friend, died from cancer. I told her that my heart felt like it was breaking. I told her I had prayed that Heavenly Father would help my dog get better, but that didn't happen. I told her that I was sad for a long time, but that I also had a few people who loved me and chose to be sad with me. They didn't tell me to stop being sad, they held me while I cried and I knew that they loved me - it didn't make it all better, but it helped me.
I told her that one of those people was her dad. She smiled at that.
We got home and Baby Girl cried a little bit more. After a minute or two, she decided she wanted to play a game on her tablet. She asked me to sit with her, and we snuggled and took turns playing one of her favorite games. She was still sad, but I could tell that she felt safe with me - safe enough to cry, safe enough to admit that her heart was broken, safe enough to trust me to be there whether she was sad or happy, safe enough to trust me to understand and let her grieve. Safe enough to find the bottom of her grief and discover that she's strong enough to handle it, in part because she knows that people who love her will help her if she needs it.
This is one of the big lessons I missed when I was a kid. I didn't feel safe to take my broken heart to anyone, so I lied to myself about it. I didn't let myself feel the pain because I was afraid that I would discover it was a bottomless pit that would consume and kill me. I didn't have anyone willing to sit with me while I found the bottom of my grief and help me pick myself up.
I have people who are helping me with that now, and I'm so very grateful for them. It is because of them that I am coming to know God as a loving, involved, and teaching Father. I want very much for my children to know Him, at least in part, through me. And this is one way I can do that. By sitting with my children and holding their broken hearts, whether the breaks are caused by lost balloons, other people's actions, or their own mistakes. I want them to know that no pain is too small for their mom or their Father to brush off, nor is any pain too big for them to survive with help from those who love them. I want them to know they can come to me and to Him with anything and He and I will listen and be sad or happy or frustrated right along with them.
I want my kids to feel safe letting me hold their broken hearts when they can't hold them anymore. And I want them to feel safe letting their Father do that too.
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