The origins of horror

Yesterday my two-year-old son, Sonny (man that sounds weird but I love his name) brought home two balloons from Round Table Pizza. It's one of the few places we'll take him. He's the sweetest boy you'll ever meet, but he can't sit still for shit, and at a place like Round Table, it just don't matter.

First he grabs these other balloons, picks a sweet-looking female toddler across the room, and proceeds to give them to her. And this is how big of a sap I am -- I start to cry. Yes, kind gestures from my children turn my eyes into faucets, I don't know why.

Anyway, he takes a couple balloons home for himself. And immediately upon exiting the car in our driveway, he lets them go.

Oops.

I need to tell you that, as a child, a similar event was one of my earliest memories. I was at some zoo with a red balloon, and I let it go -- with absolutely no idea what would happen. My father jumped for it and came up empty.

Now I'm watching Sonny's face, and I'm sure it mirrors what mine looked like almost 40 years ago.

The first look is amazement. Wow, there they go!

The second look is open-mouthed shock. Um, wait, how am I going to get them back?

The third look is, of course, pure unfiltered horror. I can't get them back.

"I want it, I want it," he cries, as the balloons become mere red and blue dots in the horizon, then reach the limits of our vision and disappear forever.

The true horror, of course, is that Dad can only do so much. Dad can't get them back. He looks at me and starts to melt.

All I can do is hug him and say, "I know."