Courtney Khail, Sugar & Vice In Process Photo

Balloon Animals

In 7th grade I went to the birthday party for a girl from class.

As you could imagine, it was an awkward setting; various groups of kids mostly separated by gender, all standing around trying to seem cooler and less insecure than they actually were.

I remember not knowing if I should hang out inside the house or if I should stay outside. It was a small house so inside felt oddly intimate and I wasn’t really that close to the birthday girl, but outside felt a bit feral. Almost like we were a box of stray cats left on the doorstep. But not cute little kittens, no- full grown alley cats. All skittish and confused and kind of in heat. (I would argue that this description applies to all middle school functions if we are being honest.)

I picked outside.

A few hours passed before one by one kids started to disappear into their arriving parent’s cars. To pass the time before we all were picked up, an impromptu game of “don’t let the balloon touch the ground” started. While not the most thrilling or creative game, it checked the two most important boxes- something to do with your hands and limited eye contact. Eventually my own mom pulled up and I jumped into the front seat holding one of the remaining balloons.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Oh my poor mom. If only she could have known where that question would bring us. I’m guessing she thought it was straight forward. Maybe even a way to break the ice and get me to talk about the party. She was in no way prepared for my response.

“My friend Rebecca* called it a dildo balloon.”

I should make it clear that I had absolutely no clue what that word meant, but as anyone who has ever survived middle school will tell you- you do not ask questions. Questions mean you do not know something and not knowing makes you weak and vulnerable. Of course, not asking questions can backfire. For example, you might find your 12 year old self in the front seat of your mom’s Oldsmobile using the word “dildo” as casually as if you’d asked “what’s for dinner?”

Some of you may be thinking “what a great segway into talking about sex and feminism and choice” but let me stop you right there. Gentle parenting wasn’t a thing yet and Georgia was a red state.

No, instead a look of shame, shock, and disgust overcame my mother’s face.

“We do not use that word.”

That response brought far more questions than answers, but the combination of her tone and facial expression (the same ones used when talking about “those girls”) confirmed the conversation was over and I would have to come up with those conclusions on my own. Here’s where I landed:

I was totally right not to admit ignorance in front of my friends because they obviously possessed information I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
Never use real names in your stories. People will remember them and not allow them to come over anymore.
Dildos are bad.

Surprisingly, even after all these years, I find that one of those lessons still serves me well today.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent