Soap bubbles are magical. Fragile, lighter than air, they float without a care in the world until; POP! They don’t. It’s no wonder kids are fascinated by them. Watching them drift makes you wonder: could I fly like that?

As a dad, I know a lot about watching moments you can capture in a photograph or video. But rewatching it isn’t the same as living it. I have kids ranging in age from 35 to 17, and every one of them followed their mom, like newly hatched little ducklings — into the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom — wherever she went. Moms have a tough job because they never get breaks.

Not real ones.

I ride alone when we take our kids somewhere. Two cars. Understand, that’s not a complaint. That’s just how it is. Like it or not. Boys? They especially don’t ride with me, preferring their mother. That’s all they want. Mom.

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So, the other day I had a chance to talk to my coworker, Candi, about stuff outside work. It’s a rarity, and she told me about a moment she is choosing to cherish — holding tight to a piece of peace, something rarely seen by moms, but something she’s proud to have slowed down enough to see.

Candi’s kids are still in elementary school, one in kindergarten, the other in fourth grade. Both girls. Both daddy’s girls want to spend time with him when it’s convenient for them, not the other way round. This is what she saw.

“He was outside working on the deck or clearing brush in the backyard. I’m not really sure what he was doing, but Merideth was out there with him, doing her best at five to help. Which, as you know, isn’t really helping. But it was Daddy. So, I heard them. I had a moment’s peace, just scrolling on my phone, not really paying attention to the conversation, until I heard the sound.”

She whistled, shrill, ear-piercing, but brief. “Like that, only with a piece of grass. Gary’s whistle was a lot louder, as you can imagine, being outside. So he was taking his time, showing her how to make the same sound with a blade of grass.”

I watched her eyes fill up, watering at the edges without her actually crying. “It was the sweetest moment.”

She finished telling me. I smiled. “That’s magical.”

She smiled back, nodding.

“I meant it, Candi. I’ve had moments like that — you don’t know they are happening until they’re almost gone. Me and Jude, riding our bikes, Jude surviving the eight miles, grinning with a half-cocked smile, like he beat every other kid his age. Bella roller skating down a massive hill, yelling and screaming for me to rescue her, when there’s nothing you can do. Joey, sitting on a giant caterpillar at Dennis Scivally Park, making goofy faces from his vantage point. You reach for those moments and, before you know it, they’re already drifting away. My kids are grown now, most of them. The moments I thought I’d remember forever have blurred at the edges. The ones I didn’t think to hold onto? Those are stuck. Right here,” I said, pointing at my head.

“Yeah,” Candi said, rubbing her eyes. “Almost like a soap bubble. You blow it and then watch it drift away in the moment, hoping it doesn’t pop. But you watch anyway, knowing it will.”

She smiled.