H cried. Tears of sadness, loss. Heartbroken.
Real tears of sadness fell down her face. All I could do was cuddle her. Her whole body shook with sobs.
She had never experienced loss like this.
It was too much for her fragile six year old self. Too much.
The only thing I could do as her mummy was to cuddle her as she buried her head in my shoulder, drenching it with tears.
All H could do was cry.
In between sobs she told us she didn’t want to leave it, that it was the only one she’d ever had. Her most favourite one.
I told her it’s okay, we can get another. It’s just a ‘thing’, it’s something which can be replaced, but she wasn’t convinced. She wanted the one she had lost.
I reminded her of the terrible sense of loss she might feel when something dies, say for example my mum’s dog, and how you learn to get over something in time, and that things really do get better.
This didn’t seem to work and Shaun just pulled faces at me for being ridiculous.
So I pointed out she still had another 30 or so balloons, and that one blue balloon bursting really isn’t the end of the world, and how the blue balloon brought so much fun and hilarity in its short time with us. Then I instructed her to throw it in the bin.
Ten minutes later she’d forgotten about it. Six year old’s are weird.