It’s Sunday today, and the sky outside is grey. I’m not sure what it’s like where you are, but here, the forecast says this gloomy stretch will linger until Tuesday. The rain comes and goes—light showers passing through, leaving everything damp. Sometimes the sun peeks out for a moment, but not long enough to dry the wet ground.
As I sit here wrapped in a blanket, sipping something warm, my mind keeps drifting back to one of those golden afternoons earlier this week—the kind that made the whole world feel bright with laughter, light, and the simple magic of bubbles drifting through the spring air.
That day was warm and bright, the kind of afternoon that invites you outside even when you’re tired or busy or not entirely in the mood. Work had drained us a little, but the sun was too convincing, and our two-year-old little Belle was already tugging at my hand, eyes full of expectation. I could tell she had plans. Or maybe not plans exactly, but hope. And it was contagious.
We’d recently bought a bubble machine. A fun little gadget we added to our outdoor stash without much thought, just something to make springtime a little more playful. But when we turned it on that afternoon, it felt like we’d cracked open a bottle of magic. Instantly, the yard was filled with bubbles—so many they looked like glittering snowflakes caught in slow motion. They floated in every direction, catching the light, dancing on the breeze.
And then came her giggle.
I don’t know if there’s a better sound in the world than a toddler’s laughter when they’re really in the moment—unfiltered, high-pitched, bursting with delight. She ran into the bubbles as if they were calling her, arms stretched wide, hopping and spinning and shouting, “Bubbles! Bubbles!” Every time one popped on her hand or her cheek, she laughed even harder. And every time the machine paused for a second, she’d look at us and say, “More bubbles?” in that tiny hopeful voice no parent can resist.
So we kept it going. We watched her run and twirl and tumble in the grass. Watched the joy take over her entire body. Her little ponytail bounced with every step, her cheeks turned pink, and her feet carried her all around the yard in happy chaos. At some point, we found ourselves joining in—running, laughing, not caring how silly we looked. There’s something freeing about letting go of being the grown-up for a while. Just chasing bubbles like they matter, because in that moment, they do.
The funny thing is, we didn’t plan it. We didn’t block off time or prepare anything elaborate. We just said yes to the moment. Said yes to the weather, to her joy, to the possibility of turning an ordinary afternoon into something unforgettable. And somewhere in the middle of all that running and laughing, I felt this quiet kind of happiness settle in.
Sometimes I think parenting is a lot like watching bubbles. You try to hold on to moments, but they’re so light, so fleeting. One second your child is tiny, just starting to crawl, and then suddenly she’s running across the lawn, eyes bright, telling you exactly how many more bubbles she wants. These little pockets of time come and go quickly, but they’re beautiful while they last. And maybe that’s the point.
Now, with the cloudy sky still hanging outside and the day slipping into early evening, that sunny afternoon feels even more special. There’s no sunshine today. No bubble machine humming in the background. It’s just the soft rustle of paper and little bursts of laughter from the living room, where she’s busy playing with her Daddy. They’re making paper planes and a paper butterfly—completely absorbed in their own little world. And even with all that movement and chatter, part of my heart is still replaying the sound of her laughter from that golden day. I keep seeing the way the light danced on her face, the way she turned to look at us with pure joy. How the air smelled like fresh grass and something sweet, how our ordinary yard became something enchanted for just a while.
We don’t always get to choose when the special moments happen. But we do get to show up for them. And I’m learning that sometimes, the simplest days turn into the ones you carry with you the longest. No fancy plans, no perfect outfits, no picture-perfect settings—just presence. Just being there, really there, with the people you love.
The bubble machine is tucked away now, waiting for the next sunny stretch. But I know that when we bring it out again, it’ll bring the magic right back. And even if it doesn’t feel exactly the same—because kids grow fast and seasons shift quickly—I’ll hold on to that one golden afternoon when the sky was full of bubbles and our hearts were full of laughter.
So today, with the grey skies and slower pace, I’m giving myself space to remember. To feel grateful. To replay the sunshine in my mind and let it warm this quiet Sunday. Because the bubbles might be gone for now, but the joy? That sticks around.
