If you happen to look away for a brief moment, your daughter will let go of that green balloon and you will turn around as it’s just out of reach. There you will watch as it floats up, up, and away. Your daughter will declare this as the saddest moment of her life thus far, which will cause you to turn back around for another solitary balloon. This one in red. Tied around her wrist so there will be no more floating away.

If you happen to make it home with your balloon still safe, your daughter will spend the time until her brothers return happily finding ways of incorporating it into play. She will kick it, she will carry it, she will bat it around. She will run throughout the house with her red blimp trailing behind. You will be amazed at how much fun a kid can have with a single balloon. You are proud of yourself for going back for another one.

Another one.

Because if your boys happen to walk in the door from school while your daughter is still playing with her balloon, you will begin to hear high pitched wails of injustice. Your kids refuse to share, and a single helium round is not enough. They will approach you pitifully and you will envy that first balloon that continues to float further away.

If you happen to be me, you will make sure you never come home with only one balloon again. Because that is the worst that could happen. Until the next time that you forget.

Before bed, when I checked Jedi’s blood sugar last. His number was 85. I wasn’t too concerned at the time, because I know by now how it goes. I adjusted his insulin dose a notch lower, then dispensed a cup of apple juice and a cheesestick for a snack. Afterward, he headed to bed where we said our goodnight. If you need me, I reminded, you know where I am.

Passing by his door a short while later, I stopped to listen. His snores said he was asleep.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t sleep. That 85 that was of little concern at first continued to fester with what ifs. There I laid awake after midnight with that number like a neon sign bright on the ceiling above me. It’s always so hard to know for sure, even with a pattern of history to rely on. I had to check, to be certain. But I didn’t want to wake him. Especially so late.

I didn’t want to wake him.

Procuring a hand from where he had it placed under his pillow, I hesitated while it instinctively clenched then relaxed again. Fumbling through the dark with his diabetes supplies, while he was sleeping and oblivious, I poked the tip of his finger with a lancet. I drew what I needed. And the boy, so used to it by now. He didn’t even flinch.

The meter beeped and I tiptoed out of his room to the light, my little secret kept safe.

His number was 144. I returned to bed and was finally able to sleep.

This morning was a treat, and my dad prodded me to order whatever I wanted. Pancakes and milk for Abby. Orange juice, sausage biscuit, and two of the cinnamon rolls.

Abby and I went to find a place to sit, but not until I made sure my 78 year old father didn’t need any additional help. The life he’s lived I’m sure I don’t know even half of. We found our spot and settled in, waving my dad over when I noticed him searching. The tray with our breakfast assortment wobbling with his uneven gait towards our direction.

He’s a great dad, their grandfather. A good man. This past year, he’s stepped in when others haven’t. And unfortunately, his age is catching up to him.

We spread out our morning meal and I went about cutting my daughter’s pancake into small bites. It’s very rare for my dad to go anywhere with us without my mom. But she wasn’t feeling well that morning. Her age, though a decade younger, catching up with her, as well. I looked over at him as he opened the lid to his coffee, bringing the full cup to his lips with both hands.

My dad, my daughter, and I. And my daughter’s dragon.

A dragon that tried to eat my cinnamon roll. I’m glad I ordered two.

I had only a single rule to follow: Don’t hit anyone in the face.

With each tag and a mark of evident precipitation left in its place, a telltale hit. Traipsing through the snow, a cast of footprints trailing behind. It was mayhem of flying snow and flinging laughter. It didn’t take long, however. As then, I breached my own command. Admittedly, a striking lucky shot.

Bam! Oops. A smashed snowball square at Jedi’s face.

His eyes froze shut for a brief moment before he turned to me, cold crystals clinging to his lashes. I was ready to apologize, concealing my amused surprised, instead prepared to deal with the ridiculous fallout. To wipe the snow away from his wet cheeks. But then he laughed, the greatest kind of laugh. Infectious as it was. And so did I.

“Revenge!”, Jedi declared as he rose, scooping more snow into a compact mound. Believe me, he got it.

Apologies were still said, though unnecessary. Because accidents happen. Even moreover, sometimes rules are supposed to be broken. Especially when they’re your own. It’s when an act of fun can reign profound. In that moment, it proved to be a very good kind of oops.