This evening I blew bubbles over my four-year old’s head while he played in the bathtub. He was “making a cake” with plastic bowls and measuring spoons and a spatula, pouring water from one container to another. I just kept blowing bubbles. I blew bubbles until I was in a little zone of meditation. It was lovely and quiet. He was occupied and creating. I was occupied and creating. We were together, but there was a stillness and quiet between us that was rare and precious. There were so many bubbles in the air that they started floating upward – the space directly in front of me was already full of bubbles. I blurred my eyes and breathed deeply while loading up my little round wand with more magic bubble liquid, and on every outward breath I was blowing more bubbles out in a long, slow stream of perfect little globes. For a busy mom, this was a moment of sheer bliss.

Ben called me back to reality by telling me my cake was ready – but I couldn’t eat any until he’d sung Happy Birthday to me. So, he sang and sang for a while and then had me blow out the candles. Then he said, “Now you’re eight!” Since he’s been doing the cake in the bathtub routine, I have been sweet sixteen, three, four, twenty, and now eight. Isn’t it delightful that he has no idea how truly old I am?
I love being a mom!

Photo from here.

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