Your recovery from devouring those soapy spheres was about as fast as your ability to reload a fresh diaper in the middle of church. Astonishing to the point of admirable. (Slow. Clap. For. You.) No sooner had you face-planted into my lap, full of despair and a tiny mouthful of suds, were you up and Adam and ready to blow another "ba ba" into my face. You're were bubbling over with curiosity.
Though you haven't quite grasped the concept of blowing air, you kiss and drool and cry some big crocodile tears like the best sorority girl on the block. That 99-cent bubble wand has never known such love.Your blue eyes grew wide as you watched each fleeting bubble burst in the afternoon sun. Sometimes you would laugh in amusement; other times you'd smack the orange stick in frustration, as if summoning the bubble to reappear. (Trust me, you'll be doing the same thing with your post-nursing chest.)
For the most part, you enjoyed our bubbly afternoon in the backyard. You may have been on the verge of a colossal melt down at points, but somehow you picked yourself up by your tiny pink sandals to once again watch the magical circles dance around you.
Sometimes in life, sweet daughter of mine, we accidentally swallow a little bubble juice. Our fragile bubbles sometimes pop right before our eyes, despite how carefully we've tried to coax them into sticking around. But even in the midst of a bubble-busted, soap-slurpin' day, we can still choose to smile, to laugh, and to eagerly await the next bubble to come our way.