In an incredibly dismal week, I manage to grasp onto the wisps and bobbles of my girls wishes to provide some cheer.

Dandelion dreams.

And self-made magic bubble wands,

Do much for the soul.

Kaya, after doing some special or fun activity, often tells me “Mom, in my brain I dreamed of that, just that what we did, and then we did it, and I didn’t even tell anybody, it was just in my brain, and then we did it, and my dream came true!”

Whether by internal vision boarding or a case of knowing what she wanted only after doing it, I can only think that my daughter is surely brilliant. Wise beyond her years. Or because of them.

Wishing my own dream into existence, I long for everyday being the me I know, instead of the me on a hormonal rollercoaster of emotional instability. Where one week of every month does not make me a slave to bitchiness, sadness, sleepiness or bitterness. This rollercoaster seems so much higher, faster and twistier since having kids, but I wonder if it isn’t just that with them, I can no longer just hide. I still have to be mom. I still have to make dinner instead of sinking into a bag of ripple chips, chocolate milk and a bad made-for-tv movie.

I still have to act sane, if not entirely feel it.

Regardless the time of month, when I feel that my bubble has burst,

I want to rebound like this.

Believing that the magic of my own breath and power of wishes will have those bubbles flowing again.


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