Isabelle grabbed for the bubbles, shook them up, then handed them to me. She took my hand and led me to the deck steps. She climbed up four stairs, sat down and told me, “Mama, sit.”
“Scoot over,” I said. “I need more space.”
She moved towards the left and said, “Mama, bubble!”
I began blowing bubbles. She kept asking for a turn. Initially I said “no,” because there were so many small bubbles inside of the wand from the shaking. The first time she took the wand from me nothing happened. The second time nothing happened either. The third time there were still no bubbles. So, she put the wand up to her mouth. The bubble soap got all over her lips and chin. She licked up the grape-smelling liquid. I immediately checked the side of the bottle to make sure the bubbles were non-toxic. (They were.)
“Wipe your mouth here,” I said lifting my sleeve up to her face. (It’s not like I keep paper towels in the backyard.)
She didn’t wipe. Instead she paused. Then, she smiled wryly and wiped her mouth on the arm of my fleece.
“Nice,” I said. “I was already planning to wash this. But if I was unsure, now I’m sure.”
Another wry smile. It was as if she got my sarcasm.
And that’s the way it went. Just blowing bubbles on a crisp early-autumn evening. Simple pleasures.
Take a listen to our “bubble conversation”: