Top Shelf Bubbles
Can we all take a moment to clear the air about a topic near and dear to my heart? Seriously, no bullsh*tting, people, this is a safe and honest place:
Bubbles.
I hate bubbles. We have accumulated a stockpile of cheap, birthday party take aways, that mask themselves as bubbles. They are composed of one part soap and ninety-nine parts water. In the history of mankind, no one has ever successfully blown two consecutive bubbles from a single wand dip. I dare you to prove me wrong.
It triggers frustration for the Yoys. Little E always concedes and takes to drinking the bubble mixture. I'm not even a little bit concerned about that, as I know what is labeled as bubbles is really just dirty water.
The Yoy arms are quickly covered in a sticky film which then attracts every speck of dirt within a three mile radius. Thus, transforming my kids into dirty street peddlers, with the exception of their crisp polo shirts.
Bubbles done right is amazing. I can set up camp in our driveway. Pop open a soda, settle into a tailgating chair and blow bubbles while my kids chase them around for hours. It never gets old. Ever. And it is a wonderful way to kill an hour during the dreaded 4-6 time slot.
Today I decided to take charge of the deteriorating bubble situation.
I marched into Babies R Us, and purchased top of the line bubbles. One for Big E and one for Little E, as forced sharing unhinges the shaky peace treaty the Yoys are operating under at any given moment.
The price tag for my high-end bubbles: $3+ per little bottle. For the same price, I could buy some Trader Joe's wine and be a much nicer Mrs. Yoy.
I pulled out the bubbles when we arrived home from school. The Yoys were amped! The weather was great! We were going to have an awesome afternoon.
Until Little E clumsily spilled half of his bottle. I watched in horror as the good bubbles slowly swirled together with the yellow film on our driveway and headed down hill.
I was frustrated, but an accident is an accident. Big E was so engrossed by the flowing bubbles that he dumped the rest of Little E's bottle out.
Now I was mad. And Little E was crying.
I somehow negotiated opening Big E's bottle and pouring some into Little E's.
Within five minutes, every ounce of top shelf bubbles was spilled.
The brief time I spent with the money bubbles did not disappoint. So, so many bubbles. And different shapes.
Now both boys were crying for more bubbles. I was crying because I had just watched my $7 swirl it's way down my driveway.
Our cleaning people were fortunate enough to witness Big E's grand bubble finale. As they loaded up their car, they watched as Big E lost his f*cking mind over soapy water.
BUBBLES! I WANT BUBBLES! BUBBLES!
His screams echoed through our neighborhood. You'd think he was calling after a pet that had been hit by a car or something equally as tragic.
It was pathetic and in that time, I pledged that our house would forever be known as a bubble free zone.
Bubbles.
I hate bubbles. We have accumulated a stockpile of cheap, birthday party take aways, that mask themselves as bubbles. They are composed of one part soap and ninety-nine parts water. In the history of mankind, no one has ever successfully blown two consecutive bubbles from a single wand dip. I dare you to prove me wrong.
It triggers frustration for the Yoys. Little E always concedes and takes to drinking the bubble mixture. I'm not even a little bit concerned about that, as I know what is labeled as bubbles is really just dirty water.
The Yoy arms are quickly covered in a sticky film which then attracts every speck of dirt within a three mile radius. Thus, transforming my kids into dirty street peddlers, with the exception of their crisp polo shirts.
Bubbles done right is amazing. I can set up camp in our driveway. Pop open a soda, settle into a tailgating chair and blow bubbles while my kids chase them around for hours. It never gets old. Ever. And it is a wonderful way to kill an hour during the dreaded 4-6 time slot.
Today I decided to take charge of the deteriorating bubble situation.
I marched into Babies R Us, and purchased top of the line bubbles. One for Big E and one for Little E, as forced sharing unhinges the shaky peace treaty the Yoys are operating under at any given moment.
The price tag for my high-end bubbles: $3+ per little bottle. For the same price, I could buy some Trader Joe's wine and be a much nicer Mrs. Yoy.
I pulled out the bubbles when we arrived home from school. The Yoys were amped! The weather was great! We were going to have an awesome afternoon.
Until Little E clumsily spilled half of his bottle. I watched in horror as the good bubbles slowly swirled together with the yellow film on our driveway and headed down hill.
I was frustrated, but an accident is an accident. Big E was so engrossed by the flowing bubbles that he dumped the rest of Little E's bottle out.
Now I was mad. And Little E was crying.
I somehow negotiated opening Big E's bottle and pouring some into Little E's.
Within five minutes, every ounce of top shelf bubbles was spilled.
The brief time I spent with the money bubbles did not disappoint. So, so many bubbles. And different shapes.
Now both boys were crying for more bubbles. I was crying because I had just watched my $7 swirl it's way down my driveway.
Our cleaning people were fortunate enough to witness Big E's grand bubble finale. As they loaded up their car, they watched as Big E lost his f*cking mind over soapy water.
BUBBLES! I WANT BUBBLES! BUBBLES!
His screams echoed through our neighborhood. You'd think he was calling after a pet that had been hit by a car or something equally as tragic.
It was pathetic and in that time, I pledged that our house would forever be known as a bubble free zone.
Damn you, Gazillion Bubbles!
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