Consolation on the loss of a balloon

Have you ever had one of those moments when the full surreality of your actions comes home to you?  Not in a bad way.  There's just something in the moment that says, "This is really ridiculous, even if it is absolutely necessary at this moment." 

For example, today, my daughter's balloon died.  It was one of those balloons made from a blown up rubber surgical glove.  Her grandpa made it for her.  When I was little, we made them into turkeys, but Boogaloo is fascinated by sea creatures, so hers was an octopus.  She kept this thing alive for a month and a half.  She tied yarn on it and led it around the house.  She accidentally cut the knot off the top, and we had to tie another one because the balloon could not be allowed to die. 

Well, today, it died.  Popped.  Burst in two.  There was no saving this balloon. 

She came into my room.  "Mommy, go to Grandpa and Grandma's house." 

I looked at her in confusion.  "Why?"  We weren't planning a trip any time soon.

She held up the pieces of her broken balloon. 

I understood.  "Oh, sweetheart.  I'm sorry your balloon broke, but we're going to have to wait awhile before we get a new one." 

Consequently tears.  She fled back to her room, and I followed.  We sat down on the bed and looked at the misshapen pieces of blue latex.

"It was a good balloon, wasn't it?" I asked.  "You had fun with it.  You tied it to strings and led it around the house."  Immediately, I felt a little silly, eulogizing a balloon. I mean, it's a balloon.  But my daughter's grief was real.  That balloon had comforted her through getting stitches.  It had entertained her.  I won't say it loved her because that's just silly, but in her mind, who knows?   Here was a part of her world that wasn't going to come back. 

In a few years, we might be doing this for the dog, or, God in his mercy forbid, another relative or a friend.  Isn't it good that she gets used to the notion of passing with the tiny things first, so she'll have a concept to build on when the big griefs come? 

She got off the bed and went downstairs.  I think she's consoling herself with some Calvin and Hobbes.   The occasion might even warrant some ice cream, but I don't think I'll carry it that far.  There's a fine line between recognizing grief and perpetuating an overimportance in these little things.  In moments like these, we have to teach each other perspective.