The blue balloons from the Weekend of March Birthdays are holding up remarkably well. They’re all over the house, safely up out of Trundles’s reach–if they reach floor level, he thinks they are ankle-biting zombies, and rides into battle with much baying and snapping.
Miss B is neutral on the subject of balloons–they are just one more strange thing done by the monkeys she herds and bosses. Unless one pops. Then she is on Red Alert, shaking and pressing close to me. I had to dose her with the anti-anxiety meds before the party; fortunately, we only had one pop event.
I suspect we’ll be picking balloons and crepe paper out of the house’s, erm, crevices, for some time to come. Birthdays. They leave a mark.