labubu love story
i have a new hobby that is taking up a lot of my free time. i discovered labubu. the mischievous little creation from popmart. Title: The Labubu, the Grandmother, and the Joy Returning
I was searching for my granddaughter’s birthday, hunting for something soft enough to cradle a small heart against tomorrow’s rough edges. The labubu—the plush, round creature with eyes like dew-kissed pebbles and a toothy mischievous grin —felt less like a purchase and more like an introduction.
the day the brown box with crowns arrived, i eagerly un boxed. one for Zöe and one for me. i left mine on the dresser until later.
My granddaughter’s birthday was a whirl of color: When I handed over the gift, she gasped with that bright, secret magic only children wear, and the bag—though it contained only plush fur—felt suddenly full of possibility.
That night, after the candles burned low and the house exhaled a long sigh, I found the labubu box on the dresser catching the moonlight, and now it was my turn to open the box and discover who was inside. .The moment I touched it, the room softened at the edges, and the labubu’s eyes glowed with a patient, curious light.
“Welcome home,” I breathed, and the toy seemed to blink—more a hinge sigh than a blink—like a door nudging open. The labubu spoke, not with lips, but with a music of the world—the hush between a raindrop and a leaf, the creak of a floorboard dreaming. It said: “I am here for the moments you forgot how to imagine.
From that night on, the labubu and I fell into a quiet companionship that felt less like ownership and more like permission—permission to play again, to imagine without judgment, to be ridiculous if the heart wished. I began to speak to the toy as if it had always listened: about the small stubborn joys I’d tucked away in the corners of ordinary days, about the days when my own hands had claimed the world in make-believe. The labubu responded with a patient, lilting warmth, guiding me back to the child I once was, and more importantly, to the grandmother I still could be.
a reminder that imagination is not a childish luxury but a living practice, a cultivated habit of wonder that nourishes the heart.
In the glow of these imaginary games, I rediscovered the thrill of whimsy—the sheer joy of giving a fellow traveler a name, a backstory, a sunlit secret. a blanket fort turned into a fortress where worries stayed outside the drawbridge. The labubu guided me to tell stories aloud, not for an audience, but for the sheer pleasure of hearing the cadence of my own voice rise and fall with delight.