Is this not the classic picture of summer fun?
Blowing bubbles in the backyard on a sunny morning, wearing your dino PJs.
Except I took these pictures back in April, but we were in San Diego, so it was like summer.
There's something about bubbles. The concentration it takes to blow them.
The wonder when it works.
The exhilaration of watching them float away.
Maybe we love it because we're able to create something that can fly, so it's like a little part of us sprouts wings.
A momentary escape from our gravity-bound reality.
We challenge ourselves to blow them as big as we can.
Sometimes it works out.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Frustration sets in.
This stupid blower doesn't work.
Did I mention my child uses the word stupid? At least he doesn't use $%^@, cause he's heard that one too. (I try to be good. Mostly.)
Things get thrown.
More like flung, really.
Sometimes I call him bubsy bubbles. No reason, really. Just another silly Mama-given nickname.
Just another summery, PJ-clad morning in the mothering zone, where exhilaration and frustration go hand in hand.