By Laura Rennie
@laurarennie_

“Are you going to buy balloons for tomorrow?”

My mom’s question hits me like a dart, striking instant panic. We are on the beach, walking back to our rental house, where my 5-year-old daughter is likely spinning around the living room in her Encanto nightgown while singing, “I can’t believe I’m going to be six! I can’t believe I’m going to be six!”

Before we left for our trip, I wrapped Chloe’s gifts in animal-covered paper and hid them in a cardboard box in the car. I purchased animal-shaped birthday plates, my sister packed napkins, and my mom brought the same “The Party Is Here!” banner we’ve used in our family since the late eighties. I knew Chloe wanted a donut with strawberry frosting and sprinkles instead of birthday cake and had already set my phone alarm to ensure I would get to the bakery right when it opened. I had everything accounted for. Everything, that is, but the balloons.

“Yeah, I’m going over to Harris Teeter.” I keep my tone casual, as if a last-minute run to the store was my plan all along. 

“Do they have balloons there?” My mom looks doubtful.

I assure her they do, but I feel my panic level rising. 

Back at the house, I grab my keys, stuff my swollen, sunburned feet into sandals, and jump in the car. I spend the ten-minute drive to the store berating myself for forgetting such an essential party item. It’s bad enough that I forgot to bring sunscreen and beach towels to the beach. Remembering every single thing on a to-do list of, I don’t know, fifty items should be totally doable! It’s not as though prepping my colleagues for work that would need to get done in my absence required much thought. Packing a week’s worth of clothes for my family, arranging for three dog-sitters, and cleaning the house before we left wasn’t exhausting at all. And managing to stay married to my husband while sitting through two hours of standstill traffic on the way to the beach? Piece of cake!

I roll my eyes and squeeze the steering wheel in frustration. It’s never enough! None of my hard work matters. What is a birthday without balloons?

An abnormally long red light gives my brain time to recount my dismal packing track record. I’ve forgotten diapers, shoes, glasses, and now, balloons—you name it, I’ve left it behind. Once, when Chloe was two, I realized in horror that while we were at our family cabin, Edie, Chloe’s most treasured bunny lovey, was still in the crib back at home. With desperation-fueled ingenuity, I knotted a kitchen towel to resemble a head with ears and a blanket-like body. “Look,” I said, holding out my creation. “It’s a cabin Edie!” 

Chloe eyed the mock lovey with disgust. “‘Das not Edie,” she said flatly. “Das a towel.” Later that night, when she tearfully accepted the substitute and rubbed it against her cheek, I didn’t feel proud of myself for coming up with a solution. I felt like a failure. What kind of mother forgets her child’s lovey on vacation?

My car pulls up to a stoplight, and I see Harris Teeter just ahead. Shaking off my thoughts with a quick jerk of my head, I take a deep breath and look at myself through the rearview mirror. I can do this, I tell my reflection. I’m not going to fail this time.

I’m not going back to the beach house without a balloon.

I steer the car into a parking space and sling my tote bag over my shoulder as if preparing for battle. This is the moment of truth. With each step I take towards the entrance, I whisper: please have a balloon. Any balloon. I don’t care. I just need something. And there, right at the front of the store, I spot my salvation: a sparkling blue dolphin balloon the size of my almost-six-year-old daughter. It’s perfect.

An audible sigh of relief escapes my lips as I grab the dolphin, a cheerful small round balloon announcing “Happy Birthday,” and a bottle of lotion promising instant sunburn relief before heading to the car. Mission accomplished! 

But the moment I step through the sliding glass doors the perfectly calm, sunny day turns windy. It feels like someone is blowing a massive fan directly at me. The giant dolphin almost flies out of my hand, then swings back to smack me in the face. 

Cheek smarting, I grasp the strings of the balloons firmly and hold them taut against my body while scanning the parking lot for my car. I can barely see between my hair whipping me in the face and the two balloons locked in an aerial duel right in front of me.

I lower my head like a bull and barrel across the crosswalk. The small weighted clips at the end of each string are no match for the wind, which continues to whirl around me. The dolphin dives at me in every direction. Please don’t let anybody see this, I think, just as I catch the eyes of a couple in a pick-up truck parked across from my car. Well, that’s just great, I think. I’m going to be the next TikTok sensation: “Mom Gets Mauled by Balloon.”

I fumble for my keys, open the trunk, and attempt to insert the balloons inside. Whoosh! The dolphin escapes. I push it back in. Whoosh! Out it comes again, its gleaming eyes taunting me. I glare at it and shove it as hard as I can. I use my body to block the trunk's opening and lower the hatch with one hand while using the other to hold the balloons in place. I carefully extract my arm and click the trunk shut. HA! I bested the #%^$& dolphin!

Then I see the small round balloon bobbing on the side of the car, its string trapped by the corner of the hatch. I hang my head in defeat, hoping the couple in the truck has driven away. I slowly turn to check. But they are still there. Still staring. 

I stand there for a few minutes, waiting for a break in the wind. There isn’t one. I can’t stay in the parking lot forever. Or can I?

Maybe I can call my family and have them meet me here. New plan. Surprise party at Harris Teeter! Happy birthday, sweet girl! By the way, one of your balloons is being held hostage in the trunk of our car.

Maybe I can find something sharp and pop the round balloon with a quick, satisfying stab. Chloe will never have to know.

Or maybe I can ask for help from these people who don’t seem to have anything better to do than watch me suffer—maybe they’ll know what to do.

Then, divine inspiration hits. The back seat! Maybe the balloons will cooperate better in the back seat. I open the passenger door with care, praying the wind won’t knock it into the side of the neighboring car. I push the balloons in, wedge them between the seats, and shut them in before either can escape.

There. I did it. The balloons are in the car.

I turn back to face my parking lot audience, this time raising both arms in victory. I watch in delight as the two faces in the truck burst into wide grins, and their arms lift to mimic my cheer. You did it, they agree.

My heart is light as I put my car in reverse and navigate towards our home for the week. The dolphin stays wedged between the seats, but the sneaky round balloon manages to escape again. It bobs happily in the back of the car, blocking the rearview mirror every few seconds. I don’t mind. My thoughts drift back to how upset I was just twenty minutes earlier. I put too much pressure on myself, I think. Everyone makes mistakes. I pull into the driveway and resolve to show myself more grace next time.

Later, when Chloe’s asleep, I hang the banner, set out the plates, and arrange gifts on the kitchen table. I pull the balloons out from behind the curtain of the bathtub in the basement and carry them to the top floor. My mom and sister gasp in unison when they see the dolphin.

I stand back and admire the scene—the banner, plates, gifts, and balloons. Everything is ready. 

My mom squeezes my arm and smiles at me. 

“It looks great, honey. Chloe is going to have a wonderful birthday. I’ve been meaning to ask you—are you planning to hide Easter eggs on Sunday?”

My eyes widen.

Oh my gosh, I forgot about Easter.

Guest essay written by Laura Rennie. Laura lives in Maryland with her husband and balloon-loving daughter. She might forget to pack a toothbrush or sunscreen, but she never leaves home without a book (or five). Check out what she’s reading and writing over on her Substack.