Please Don't Burst My Bubble

The TV in the dental office waiting room was tuned to the local morning news program. In this era of smartphones, I hadn’t watched the news in ages. The volume was low, but the closed captioning occasionally caught my attention as I waited to be called back. I glanced up at the screen and read the words. A wave of nostalgia hit me, but I was forced to compose myself as the hygienist called my name.

I never thought of myself as a “keep up with the Jones” type of person-- until I had kids and was expected to throw them a birthday party. When I was a child, a birthday party was pretty formulaic: it consisted of games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Musical Chairs; there was cake and ice cream; the kid opened their gifts; and you brought home a party bag full of candy and plastic toys. We thought it was awesome.

By the time I had young kids, the parties were much more elaborate--often themed and featuring a children’s entertainer. During our time in the party circuit, we saw magicians, jugglers, a guy who brought a portable reptile zoo to your home, face painters, and even backyard pony rides. The pressure was fierce to host a child’s party that the parents would never forget.

As my eldest’s fifth birthday approached, I was struggling to curate the perfect party. It felt like everything had been done before, and I was no copycat. I called my sister, Claire, who was not yet a parent, whining that time was running out and that the expectations were high. “The kids don’t care,” she chided. “Just let them play!” Clearly, she had no idea that a free-form birthday would be the talk of the Kindergarten parents, and not in a good way. “Oh stop,” she continued, “Remember when Tammy’s neighbor dressed up as a clown for her party? It was simple, free, and it was great!” Tammy was our cousin, and that party was infamous in our family. “Uh,” I replied, “don't you remember how hot it was that day, and that the clown makeup was melting down that guy’s face? It was straight out of a horror movie. We all screamed and ran behind the couch. Tammy had to breathe into a paper bag to stop hyperventilating,” I reminded her.

Claire told me I was overthinking things, but before I could argue, she said, “How about Bubble Bob?”

“Bubble Bob? That old hippie dude that does bubble shows at street fairs?”

“Yeah! I bet he does parties too.”

I hated to admit that this was a good idea, so I dampened my cautious enthusiasm by mumbling that he was probably too expensive.

Bubble Bob was a regular at community festivals, delighting both kids and adults with his elaborate show, creating bubbles, from tiny ones to giant orbs, out of all kinds of repurposed household items. As he created the sudsy show, he also espoused, in age-appropriate terms, the importance of environmental responsibility. It was charming and showy, and just what I -- just what my kid-- needed.

After the call, I hopped on the computer and found Bubble Bob’s website. The homepage featured swirling psychedelic letters and bubbles that floated across the screen. Somewhat dizzy, I clicked on “Book Bubble Bob” and was pleasantly surprised to find his rates on par with the other over-the-top kid entertainers. I typed in my preferred date and waited for his reply.

The next morning, I checked my email, exhaling dramatically. “Bubble Bob,” I sighed to myself, “you’re my only hope.” Incredibly, Bubble Bob was available, and I booked him right away. I sat at my computer, gleefully clapping my hands. My party, my kid's party, was going to be hard to top!

The party day arrived, and most of the kids we invited were coming. No one wanted to miss the one and only Bubble Bob! I was startled from a daydream where I had become the talk and the envy of the mom crowd for my incredible party, or rather, my child’s incredible party, by the doorbell. It was him!

Standing in front of me, in a cloud of bubbles, was a portly, balding man in purple velvet harem pants, a colorful patchwork vest, and a blousy white shirt. What hair he still had was scraped back into a stubby ponytail, adorned with a tie-dye ribbon. Parked in our driveway was his purple, sparkly minivan, painted with the same swirly, 70s-style lettering as his website. I showed him to the backyard where he could set up for the show.

The kids arrived and they ran excitedly to the yard where iridescent bubbles were already dancing and floating, waiting for little hands to pop them.

Bubble Bob did not disappoint. His exuberant display found the children running and shrieking with delight around the backyard. I was enjoying every minute of their joy, and honestly, quite captivated by this quirky entertainer. It was obvious that he loved his work, and his gentle nature quickly earned the trust and love of the kids.

In the middle of the show, Bubble Bob paused for a quick break; the children happily playing amongst the myriad bubbles still floating around the yard. He walked toward me as I held out a glass of water. His bright blue eyes twinkled. The lines around his mouth were evidence of years of laughter. I felt a little flip in my stomach. Did my heart just skip a beat? I hadn’t felt this way since the unrequited love of my life, Craig Anderson, walked toward me at the eighth-grade graduation dance. It was that same little frisson of excitement at the thought he was going to ask me to dance. As it turned out, Craig was making a beeline for Becky Adams, not me, but I never forgot that hopeful feeling. I startled back to the present, as Bubble Bob took the glass from my hand and thanked me. I felt my face flush and looked away, embarrassed by my schoolgirl reaction to an aging children’s entertainer. Worried he could tell, or worse yet, the other parents had noticed, I said something profound like, “I better go get the cake,” and left Bob to finish his water and to resume his performance.

I glanced at the other moms, decked out in their designer yoga wear and carefully contrived messy buns. As I tuned into their conversation, eagerly waiting for them to gush my party-planning praise, I instead heard, in sarcastic tones, “Nice outfit. What is he going for, Renaissance Fair meets Woodstock?” Stifled giggles followed, and then another one waved her hand, a massive diamond glinting in the sun, and sneered, “I doubt there’s ever been a Mrs. Bubble Bob, what a weird dude.”

My face grew hot, and I felt the first sting of tears. But I wasn’t angry that they weren’t praising my kid’s party. I was furious that they were mocking my Bubble Bob. My focus on appearances once again got the better of me, so I said nothing except, “Can I get you some wine?”

The party was a resounding success. The children were laughing, flushed with excitement and cake, and begged for more bubbles. Bubble Bob passed out all of his business cards to attending parents, and I felt a pang of something I couldn’t name as he drove his purple van out of our cul-de-sac.

After the party, I thought about Bubble Bob a lot. I think it’s safe to say that I was preoccupied with Bubble Bob. I didn’t think about him romantically, but I did romanticize him—an important distinction. I didn’t think about where he lived, whether or not he was lonely, or if he had credit card debt. I just thought about his gift for spreading simple joy and kindness, his gentle spirit, and his infectious childlike enthusiasm. I craved the feelings that captivated me that day in my backyard.

As this pining grew, so did my disdain for the toned, judgmental mom group whom I had tried so hard to impress. I wanted nothing more than to be better than them. But at what? Throwing children’s parties? Missing Bubble Bob illuminated my shame; it revealed my shallowness.

Bubble Bob performed at several more birthday parties we attended. It was hard to contain my excitement when we opened an invitation featuring the swirly, psychedelic lettering. I’d stand aside, watching the children gleefully chase the bubbles, and smile as they would listen earnestly to Bob’s heartfelt environmental lessons. Worried that my enthusiasm would show, I’d lurk on the sidelines, hoping for just a moment when I could lock eyes with Bubble Bob’s twinkly baby blues. When I could receive a much-needed dose of magic.

Children grow up, and they stop having birthday parties, at least the ones festooned with balloons and garishly frosted cupcakes. Entertainers are replaced with arcades, paintball competitions, or sleepovers, until one day they celebrate without you. And eventually, I stopped thinking about Bubble Bob.

Even after my kids left home, I’d sometimes see Bubble Bob’s van around town. He still regularly appeared at street fairs and festivals, and my heart still quickened when I’d see his face online, advertising an upcoming appearance. I kept telling myself that I should go see him. But life got in the way, and I never seemed to find the time.

The hygienist led me to the chair, attached the paper bib, and placed protective glasses on my face. As I opened my mouth, a tear rolled down my cheek, and she asked if I was okay. I could only nod since my mouth was open, and she was already probing my teeth with various instruments. After a seemingly interminable amount of time, my appointment was over, and I walked back through the waiting room to the exit. Glancing furtively up at the TV, someone had changed the channel, and now a blonde woman on QVC was talking up some bejeweled earrings.

Back at my car, I practically jumped into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and checked my phone. My hands shook as I searched “local news today.” I had only glanced up at the waiting room television. I probably hadn’t read the captions correctly. Probably. Hopefully.

And then I saw the headline:

“Beloved Children’s Entertainer, Bubble Bob, Dead at 78.”

I don’t know how long I stared at these words. Or how long I sat in my car in the dental office parking lot. Through tears, I read Bubble Bob’s tribute. I didn’t know that he’d entertained kids around the world, or that he donated a percentage of his fees to the children’s hospital. But I did know that years ago, he’d brought wholesome, genuine joy to my backyard. That if my memories had a soundtrack, the echoes of the kids’ laughter that day would be the featured song. That, if you were lucky enough to gaze at those twinkling blue eyes, then, you would always believe in magic.

I pulled myself together and started the car, just as a perfect, shimmering bubble floated by.