Quarantine, henceforth known as the ‘Q-word’. It’s wasted enough of my life already and I refuse to waste any more of it on so much as spelling the whole word out. This is a curse word. A CURSE.
The truth is, right before the dreaded Q-word hit, things were just about to get good. Olive aced her German intro class and was set to begin in her permanent school. I passed my language test and had begun interviewing for jobs. The long, dreary Berlin winter was ending and about to make good on its promise of being absolutely awesome. But, alas, no.
Corona. And Q-word!
This particular day started out quite tolerable, all things considered. I briefly escaped the house to run an “essential errand”. Waiting in line, soaking up my fifteen minutes of freedom, a familiar display caught my eye. Bubble wands!
I was feeling pretty spunky (relatively speaking because you know… the Q-word) and for just a few Euros- what the hell?! Snagging one up, I basically skipped home hoping my simple joy would be as contagious as a recently accused bat. (Too soon?)
Olive lit up, as one does when presented with a shiny, new bubble wand. Her enthusiasm inspired us to take our little bubble fairy and her wand for a short gallop around the neighborhood. And that’s the end of this fairy tale.
On the real, if you are also in Q-word and enjoyed this sweet image of my picturesque family relishing a sunny stroll framed with blooming trees. Their sweet little girl twirling with a fresh bubble wand, her parents occasionally leaping or stretching to catch a floppy bubble… then take a snapshot, put it on a visitors’ brochure, and walk away.
It’s about to get real Roseanne in here (minus the racist, career-ending rant).
Olive is running, jumping, frolicking with general merriment when SLAP! The mint condition bubble wand lurches out of her [incredibly shallow] pocket making the same sound as your iPhone landing, screen down, on your ceramic tile floor.
Busted. Broken. Dunzo.
Phase I: Cue the crying child. Simultaneously, cue the comforting and incredibly sympathetic parents.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry it’s broken! Hmph. Well, it was fun while it lasted. That happens,” adding a few gentle back rubs.
Phase II: Olive is no longer sniffling. She is sobbing, and it's quickly escalating to wailing.
“But you JUST bought it for me!”
I give her an understanding look and attempt to soothe her, “honey, I know, but I didn’t really expect it to last.”
I quickly discovered that wasn't the right answer either. The words that landed on her ears were, “you destroy everything you touch!” instead of “dude, it was three Euros." Now she’s insulted.
The wailing is accompanied by the dragging of feet, in a weak attempt to soldier on. In my head, the record plays, "it’s beautiful out. I am so happy to be out! How do we move past this and enjoy a nice little walk outside?’
But my kid has other plans.
Phase III: “My new friend won’t like me anymore because it’s broken! WAAaaaa!!”
And like the damn bubble wand, I am cracking.
“WHAT new friend?! We don’t have any friends! We only have each other right now! Also, PLOT HOLE, we’re the only people who ever even knew the thing existed in the first place! WHO could be so mad they wouldn’t want to be your friend? Only a TERRIBLE one and if that’s the case, you don’t need her anyway! You are just looking for new reasons to be sad about it. Please, just let it go!”
She stared at me for a moment, leading me to believe she was hearing what I meant. Wrong again. In reality, she was only collecting her breath, so that in the next moment when she thrust her chin to the sky, the giant wail she let out could be heard by the gods.
But oh, my sweet child, they cannot hear you. Because we have descended to the third level of hell and there are no gods here.
Phase IV: Complete nuclear meltdown.
And I don't mean her. ME.
I march toward her, snatch that little thief of happiness from her sticky little bubble-juice fingers and LAUNCH it like a bronze medalist javelin thrower.
Or as some might say, like a CERT-I-FIED PSY-CO! Complete lunatic.
But for two precious seconds...nothing. Complete silence. Oh sweet silence. Looking down the path, I see the empty, plastic carcass lying there. Only a stone’s throw from a waste bucket.
A voice in my head gently whispers (probably because it’s afraid of me), “Well you can’t just leave it there… litterer.”
Shit. She’s right. Not after that freak show. That’s gotta be some kind of double mom felony. Begrudgingly, I stomp down the path and after three angry tries, successfully send it to its final resting place in the bin. Along with any hope that we could make it out of this whole Q-word thing emotionally unscathed.
The moral of this story?
No one is coming out of this unchanged.
We’re all doing our best.
But most of all, bubble wands be damned.
