Yesterday, I had another of my seemingly daily epiphanies about how much I love being Pumpkin’s mother. This time it wasn’t the result of any exceedingly charming or impressive feat by Pumpkin (though aren’t they all charming and impressive). Instead, it came while blowing bubbles on the front stoop at Nona and Pop’s.
We were just blowing bubbles out of one of those $.99 bubble bottles with the cheap plastic wand that you can barely get out for the tiny opening, and even when you do there is slimly bubble juice dripping down your arm; and then when you finally get a good wet wand-ful of bubbles you blow with all your might (but just enough might so you don’t ruin the whole process) and you get one stinking bubble out. Bubbles these days are cheap. A twist tie from a bag of bread and mama’s ivory soap made better bubbles. But I digress.
I love being a mama. Yes, for all those reasons I usually wax poetic on, like youth and beauty and unconditional love. All those things are great, life-changing, and indescribable. But I also like being a mama for some very selfish reasons. I get to blow bubbles.
Sure, I could have blown bubbles every day before Pumpkin was born. Probably get better bubbles going since she wouldn’t be there to pop them before they even detach from the wand. But I didn’t blow bubbles back then. It would seem silly to have sat on my porch alone and blown bubbles. It seems almost sillier to do it with another adult. It only makes sense to blow bubbles with Pumpkin. And of course, it is much more enjoyable – her sheer delight at each wobbly wonder; clapping for me as I catch the just-released floater right back on my wand and hold it before her almost like magic. Blowing bubbles is fun, and oddly therapeutic.
It’s not just bubbles either. I get to play with blocks, which has also proven to be oddly cathartic. Stacking, matching, mis-matching and then destroying. I have to admit I get a little lost in our block-building.
There’s also coloring and finger painting, which are SO much fun. Sure, I have my own “grown up” paints, pencils, canvases, easels and every other artistic device you can imagine, but there is something about putting on one of dada’s old t-shirts and just splattering away with brightly colored finger paint, with utter disregard for it making a mess because it is washable and who cares anyway.
Which brings me to dirt. I confess, I still hesitate when it comes time to actually put my hands in the dirt. I was never much a dirt-kid, but Pumpkin loves dirt. And after my initial hesitation and gut instinct to always have shiny clean hands, playing in the dirt is just downright fun.
You know what else is fun? Going down a slide. Really all the implements at the park are pretty fun, but the slide is my favorite. That’s another one that grownups just don’t go and do without a kid (nor should they, lest the cops be called).
And let’s not leave out cartoons. While I could certainly go a long, long while without another episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse (no such luck), sometimes watching a good old fashion cartoon is a nice break from the reality-drama-news blech that is on every other channel. I’ll be honest, more than Nick Jr. and Disney, I’m looking forward to the day (very, very soon, I think) when Pumpkin is old enough to sit through a feature length kiddy-presentation. For years I’ve wished I had someone to take to see those incredible kid movies – now I have my date!
In addition to all the doing, there are also those “yummies” that I just never put on my grocery list before Pumpkin. Take apple juice, for example. Apple juice is delicious. The other night there were a couple sips of the glorious nectar left in the box, and it was then that I had a revelation that I really love apple juice. It’s been ages since I’ve had juice that wasn’t some complicated concoction like acai pomegranate blueberry antioxidant flax seed puree. It was just apple juice and I drank it until the box crumbled in my hand. This weekend I bought another jug of it so I can forego the tiny straw next time.
And with that apple juice, how about a handful of goldfish (“foosh”, as Pumpkin calls them)? There may be no more perfect snack than a handful of goldfish.
So, I admit, while I love all the existential, intangible, emotional aspects of motherhood, I also just love the games and the snacks. Everything in life truly is that much sweeter when shared with a little Pumpkin.
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