Written for an Audience of Helium Balloons

I sit at my desk with an array of six helium balloons looking over my shoulder. They look quite festive and I feel the pressure of their airy expectations, but I have nothing.

I mean, I thought about talking about my near-paralysis in picking out the next book I'll read. Or about my determination to scrapbook my neglected pictures--which fades by the time the kids go to bed.

We're going to a wedding tomorrow, which seemed like a lot of fun when I RSVP'd, but now . . . now I am worrying about what to wear and about how my daughter will fare under my mother's care. My daughter is shy and a mama's girl. She'll do fine. But what will I wear? And will my feet hurt?

My daughter's party was fun. She said, "I am so happy!" when we put her beach ball cake in front of her and lit the candles. She insisted that everyone wear party hats. And then today, she was ready to do it all over again. I'm just happy that we won't do it all over again for a year. Today I spent most of the day attending to all the things I neglected yesterday while I was baking cakes and whipping up frosting.

Someone pointed out to me in the comments how amazing it is that my daughter was born almost exactly sixty years after my father was born. I never noticed that before, which is odd because I did notice that my mother was 37 when I was born and I was 37 when my daughter was born. I noticed that my mother was 59 was my daughter was born and my grandmother was 59 when I was born. Sometimes, I listen to my mother talk about her mother and about the heavy burden she bears caring for my grandmother who lives alone, still, at 99. And I think, will that be me in thirty years, complaining about taking care of my mother? Will my mother live until she's 99? And then my thoughts begin to wander far into the future and I rein them back in. Live here. Live now. Let the future unfold without my constant fretting.

Well. See? I really have nothing worth saying tonight.