Our Balloon Contest Was Up In The Air Until It Wasn't

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Last August, out of nowhere, my mom’s eightieth birthday dropped from the sky. Maybe it’s better to say it floated down slowly like a helium balloon because long before August we could see it coming. We watched it drift down. When it landed, we were like anybody who knows something but can’t believe it. Where’d that come from?!

My siblings and I planned a low-key party for her. Family traveled from out of state to my brother’s house. There were laughs and stories told, and as with everything, the party came and went.

A few days later, my sister-in-law texted the extended family a picture of all the party’s helium balloons stuck to the top of her vaulted ceiling. In the photo, each balloon had a handwritten number next to it.

“Which one do you think will last the longest?” she asked.

With that one simple question, a positive chapter in the story of my family began.

Photo by Ivne Haas Wilson

The Helium Balloon Contest

My relatives staked their reputation on the balloon they felt possessed the grit to outlast the competition. As for me, ever the competitor, I sought out expert advice. I asked the chemistry husband living in my house an educated question — Honey, what’s the deal with helium?

I learned about surface area, heat, and size variation among molecules. As a major family contest contender, I placed my bet on # 10 — a rotund balloon with a no-frills, minimized surface area.

As the group texted each other — incessantly — sharing silliness and mock trash talk and throwing out laughing emojis like no tomorrow, the first competitor fell. Cue the bagpipes.

It was Balloon # 5, but we could also call it Balloon of Conflict.

In the US, families haven’t been immune to the political climate over the last many years, and our family with its conflicting views got infected as you’d expect. Gatherings weren’t the warm and fuzzy events they used to be, but we made do and walked the conversation straight line. While our tension had waned, it was still an undercurrent as the balloon contest got underway.

When Balloon # 5 sank to the floor, you could feel our silly game subtly ground our differences and set into motion a bond. We were now a group, rather than a collection of solitary figures. We were a unified helium unit.

Since our joke of a contest killed ole Conflict, I’d like to say: Rest in peace # 5 and thank you.

This was mid-August. For the next three weeks, a Guinness Book record-setting text thread grew between the family. It was as consistent as it was funny — it was nuts. My sister-in-law posted videos of some of the balloons drifting from room to room in her house because helium balloons will drift as they like.

There was a flute dirge that accompanied a video of one balloon falling to its end. “I’m Going Down” by Bruce Springsteen and “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas announced other demises.

There were videos of my brother who assumed a special character, Mr. Helium Delirium, a professorial fellow who addressed the contestants in collegiate attire while he told exceptionally bad balloon Dad jokes.

There was earnest balloon chatter.

Just because they are low or old, doesn’t mean they are dead, yet!

Here’s our graveyard. RIP. [with a picture of the deceased balloons in a pile]

It looks like # 12 has a dent!

Hang in there, # 11!

Bye # 2!

And after # 2 settled onto the floor at the foot of a table — It looks like # 2 is peeing in the corner.

One by one, the airborne birthday party contestants fell. Family members cried in abject sorrowful loserdom, which was good for me. Finally, there was one balloon left. # 10.

I told you I’m a contender.

There were three of us who chose # 10, so now we had to choose when it would fall. My cousin said 24 hours. I said four days. My sister said eight.

Eight days later, my sister won, that scoundrel. But # 10 didn’t fall in eight days. It fell in thirty! As he is about too many things, my chemistry husband was right again.

Balloon # 10. Born August 17, 2023. Died October 17, 2024. RIP.

As the balloon contest wound down, and the congratulations were showered onto my sister, that rascal, my brother put it so well in a text to the group.

You know, we don’t have to spend lots of money to have a fancy party or serve tenderloin or lobster. We don’t need frisbee golf, a Turkey Bowl, a card tournament, or a caterer. All we need to do is let a bunch of balloons hit the ceiling and send out text messages and I think my family will be satisfied.

During the Covid shutdown, when my dad was still alive, a group of us gathered outside on my sister’s lakefront patio. We sat around a table and exchanged simple conversation until someone brought up politics. I could feel the gray descend from the sky. Bummer, I thought. It was going so well. Then I got an idea.

“I was thinking the other day about the show Seinfeld,” I told them, “and the scene where George does that crazy thing.” Folks started to giggle. “That show was hilarious,” I said, “Do you guys have any favorite scenes from comedy shows?”

This set off one of the more memorable conversations for me in the last many years. People took off with the question. Comical scenes and characters were recounted and imitated. As soon as someone hit a funny bone, cackles flew straight across the lake to the other side.

The topic was infectious, and for a moment it killed the politics-driven separation that was under the surface. It brought us together instead of pushing us apart.

Family dynamics are a perennial story of love, conflict, passionate opinion, sorrow, and laughter. Siblings grow into a habitual groove of pecking order. There can be cooperation, life-saving generosity, and deep love — or sometimes there can be estrangement.

Now that I’m an older, contemplative adult, I wonder what I did in my role as the oldest sibling to my sisters and brother. How much did I love, and how much did I harm? If the same can be asked of my siblings, then maybe going forward, we might normalize this and let each other off the hook more than we have.

Helium is the second most abundant element in the observable universe, but it’s rare on Earth. The helium here is non-renewable because once it escapes our glittery birthday balloons, it floats up into space.

You could say helium is like love. Love is abundant or rare, depending on who you ask and where you are. If you have love, you need to hold it well and contain it with intention, otherwise, it can start drifting. I want to hold my family. They’re a beautiful bunch.

I’m grateful those balloons had the good sense to float to the ceiling. As they leaked their insides and wafted down, my family filled our insides and rose. In the end, the Balloon Contest had one winner — our family.

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Have a good week, friends.