You would think that blowing bubbles would be an absolute blast. Well at least it should be, right?
Enter stage right.
My husband’s eyes are lit up like a dewy newborn fawn. I’m immediately on edge because this look usually means, “Hey can I spend a ridiculous amount of money on items I don’t really need but they look cool so I want them,” or “Hey I just had the best idea for the kids ever!”
Neither of which turn out in the benefit of my sanity or our children’s emotional well-being. I turn my chair towards him and acknowledge his fawn eyes.
“Hey, we should get the kids bubbles!” His voice escalating in excitement.
Now hindsight being this horrible thing of 20/20 or whatever it’s called, I’m super bad with all things analogy and metaphor, I should have known right then and there, getting the kid’s bubbles was a horrible, horrible idea. Reluctantly I agreed, and off to the Dollar Tree he went go grab bubbles.
When he finally came home, which was only a matter of 20 minutes or so, he showed me with all the excitement he had, the set of bubbles he bought for the kids. I nodded in agreement and figured, it’s a new toy, the kids would have a blast regardless.
Our youngest was passed out for a much-needed nap, while our oldest was upstairs screaming away at make pretend hackers and gaming failures. The weather wasn’t super conducive to bubble blowing. It was windy, rainy and super overcast. So we decided that the next day, if the weather held out, would be the bubble blowing bonanza.
As the next day came rolling around, the bubble blowing bonanza prep began. We let the little one nap first, as this child tired, is utter and complete destruction on two legs.
2 p.m came approaching rapidly and my little began rustling free of her nap. The weather was nice and muggy, all the makings for a wonderful storm later in the evening. My husband was grabbing her, I utter the word, “outside” to her. She immediately perks up ready to run around ragged for the next hour.
We walk downstairs to get ready to go outside when she beat us to everything. No shoes. No socks. Just her waddling at full speed to the front door. Jiggling the handle and trying her absolute hardest to unlock the lock. When she realized she was failing, enter banshee wail and face full of tears.
It was at that moment we knew we messed up, but we didn’t let it stop us. We just kept trucking and moving our way outside to set up the bubble blowing party she was about to feast her little eyes on.
Mike was frantically trying to get the bubbles open, his sausage fingers crazily trying to pull the little itty bitty wand out of this ridiculous sized bottle. Finally, he shoved the bottle in my face, silently asking me to help him without mocking him. Which I did. I got the wand out, gave it to little miss “wow”, and squatted down, enjoying her chase the bubbles as they flew freely with the wind.
She began to toddler babble she wanted the wand, she wanted to blow bubbles too. So we gave her the wand, and that’s when things took a turn for the worse.
First, she wanted to do the bubbles by herself. She didn’t need nor want our help.
Second, when she couldn’t blow bubbles she started screeching like a dying banshee.
Third, pretty sure she ate way more bubble solution then she actually blew.
Then it happened.
She became this mean little selfish thing on two legs. No one was allowed to touch the bubbles, blow the bubbles or even breathe the bubbles or she would go off. Full finger point, fast babble and lots of no, no, no, no — all while she scooted the solution closer to her, spilling it along the way.
Now, there are bubbles in the house all the time. If we choose to tell her no, not right now, she loses her ever-loving toddler mind.
She still eats the bubbles.
She still gets angry when no one wants to blow bubbles.
But now her vocabulary has grown, and bubbles on top of Google are her favorite things to say. Well bubbles mainly because she gets the shove things in your face while cutely saying, “Bubble?”
Now if only I can get her to nap as enthusiastically as she enjoys bubbles
