When I was making dinner for the Bean and I tonight, she came into the kitchen with one of the little bottles of bubbles leftover from her birthday party. She squatted down next to me and worked on the bottle, removing the decorative ribbon and stickers before beginning her assault on the lid. It's tight and tough to get off, especially for little hands.
I watched her doing this while I chopped sweet potatoes. I was making sweet potato fries, one of her, and my, favorites. When I had finished with the fries, tossing them in oil, evenly laying them out on a cookie sheet and throwing sea salt over them, I put them in the oven and turned my attention fully to my daughter.
She was getting frustrated. Unable to open the bottle, her toddlerness was showing itself. She squealed, not the happy kind, and handed the bottle to me. I opened the bottle and brought the lid to my mouth, blowing out a stream of bubbles. Delighted, she danced around, my little imp, catching and popping the bubbles. Laughing.
I watched and counted the bubbles. There are two kinds. Heavy ones that fall and pop quickly, and light ones that seem to defy gravity as they dangle endlessly in the air.
A couple of weeks ago, my mom called me up, worried. I had written a post that said to her that I was not okay. It wasn't so much the words, but the way I had phrased things. Subtleties. It had gotten her mommy sense tingling. My mom worries. Not without reason. My family is not short on crazy. We wallow in it. Rub it in to our skin.
But that is not, was not, the problem. I was just frustrated. I was having one of those days you have with toddlers. Too little sleep, too much screaming, not enough caffeine. I was cranky, and rueful, and angry, and heavy. There are just days like that.
But that day passed and with it the heaviness. We are back to our usual buoyant selves. Today, we are laughing and joyful and light. Sophie and I and the bubbles. We could float all night.