GrandBoy loves balloons. No. "Love" is the wrong word. GrandBoy covets balloons. Balloons in grocery stores or restaurants or outside a place of business or in Goodnight, Moon. He wants every balloon he sees. Now, as his mama points out, once he gets a balloon, there's not much he can do with it, at least not at 19 months old. But if there's a balloon in sight, he wants it to be his.
Yesterday after an active morning in Atlanta's Winn Park - where we repeatedly tested all five slides (except for the high twisty one), GrandBoy and GrandMary dropped into our local Chick-Fil-A for a well-deserved lunch. The minute we opened the doors, I knew we were in trouble. Large shiny mylar balloons decorated the counter area, and GrandBoy's eye honed right in on 'em.
"Baaa-oooon! Baaaaa-ooon!"
Oh. Dear. I placed our order through much pointing and "baaa-ooon"-ing. As we entered the dining area, I noticed lots of red and white balloons dotting the tables and booths filled with children. Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. No sooner had we settled into our booth than a kind employee came by with a fistful of balloons. Yea! We chose a red one. I tied it to GrandBoy's buttonhole so that it wouldn't fly away.
Seeing him with the balloon reminded me of that wonderful film The Red Balloon, which I dearly loved as a child and that his mama loved when she was little. It's still a favorite of mine. GrandBoy's too young for the post-war Paris fable of a little boy and his wonderfully faithful red balloon, but I hope when he's older he'll find a place in his heart for it. It is the ultimate boy-and-his-balloon story.
GrandBoy's red balloon lost its oomph by late evening, and interest in it was lost, as well. Still, maybe some day he'll find more uses for his balloons. 
