When the balloons blew away during our family photo shoot last week, it was the first time for our daughter. She pointed and gasped and made it known that the “balls” were “all done.” The look on her face was a mix of awe and distress. It was the first time she’d seen so many balloons in one place, within her grasp, and it was the first time she’d lost them to the sky.
The wind whipped at our hair and our clothes, as we posed for pictures, as we worked to get our 18-month old baby bird to smile. All along, the wind seemed to have its hands stretched out for something in particular. It wanted the balloons from the moment we stepped out of the car, a half an hour late. It lusted after that which made us late, hungry for the blue plastic inflatable orbs puffed up with helium we brought to celebrate. And with one dramatic gust it got them.
And you know what’s funny?
After the wind snatched the bouquet of balloons from my hand and sent it flying through the air, up and over the dry Santa Clarita hills into a cloud dotted sky, it let up a little. The wind finally calmed down.
It was then that we got the best pictures of my girl child, my man partner, and even of me. It was then that it sunk in what the photo shoot was really all about in the first place – we’re having a baby boy.
It’ll be the first, and probably only, time our daughter gets a sibling. And it will be the first, and probably only, time we get a son.