Chasing bubbles, chasing dreams

There is chicken thawing on the counter, and laundry in the dryer.
Floors to be vacuumed.
Blogs to be read.

"Mama! Can we blow bubbles? Come outside!"
I sigh. Interrupted.
And I don't like these bubbles
When I squeeze the bottle, they drip down my hand.
Messy.

"Hmmm... you go outside and blow bubbles. You can do it!"
She shakes her head, sad. No. It isn't fun to blow bubbles by yourself.

So we go out, and I sit down on her stool, on her level.
Brown eyes fill with excitement.
Blow bubbles, Mama!

I pop up the wand, the drippy one. And oh yes, it trickles down my hand. Messy.
But sometimes making memories is messy.
And sometimes messy can be fun,
If you let it be.

Bubbles flutter around her head like fragile dreams.
She dances and darts this way and that, not knowing which to reach out for first.
She laughs when her finger pokes through one, and pouts when another flies too high.
Not every bubble can be caught, not every dream realized,
But baby, you sure can try.

I forget about the million things to do inside,
And am lost in the now.
The late afternoon sun hits my back, and reminds me that I would have missed this
If I had stayed inside.
The day is pure spring, this feeling pure joy.

The chicken is still on the counter,
the laundry still needs to be folded,
the vacuum still sits in the closet,
and the blogs have multiplied since I stepped outside.

But we were busy.
Chasing bubbles, chasing dreams.



This is my entry for Scribbit's April Write-Away Contest.