You guys. My daughter likes bubbles. She also loves to nurse. Coincidentally, my boobs are now known as “bubbas” of which I’m still trying to figure out is a compliment or not.
But this is not about my boobs. This one is about bubbles.
Did I ever tell you this was Olivia’s first word? I mean, she’s been saying Mama and Dada for months now, and technically Mama is her first word, but since that’s also an early babble, I counted “bubbles” as her first official word back on June 29th. That day, we were eating lunch together and since it’s a bit awkward trying to make table conversation with a 20 month old, I asked her to say, “bubble.”
And she opened her mouth, and very clearly, proudly, and intentionally said, “Bubb-le.”
So… first word, you guys.
Playing with bubbles is her new Favorite Thing Ever and she wants to do it all the time, much to my dismay.
Sure I love her. I just, you know, don’t like playing with her all the time. #sahmproblems Especially when it comes to “BUBBAS!!!!” being blown in my face from 0.75 inches away, and soap dripping down my arm from poorly aimed wands.
We go outside to water the garden…
“BUBBAS!!!!!!”
We head out to the backyard to swing…
“BUBBAS!!!!!!!”
I discreetly slip out the patio door to grab some basil from the garden…
“BUBBAS!!!! BUBBAS??? BA-BAS!!!!”
(only muffled because I’ve locked her in the house with her face smushed against the glass)
She wants to do this shit all. the. time. But you know, I guess we’re making memories or something. Or so I’m told.
