Ah, bubbles. Entrancing to young and old, tantalizing to all with the desperate want, nay, the need to pop them almost as soon as they are formed. And my children were no exception this past weekend thanks to beautiful weather and their mother being armed to the teeth with bubble containers for outdoor acreage fun.
And fun it was.
Even my 7 year old still loves bubbles, he will chase them with his little cousin just as excitedly as he did when he was only a wee three years old.
It makes my heart ache just a little to think about my tall seven year old being as small as my nephew is in the picture below, it seems like only yesterday.
I swear it was only yesterday.
But somehow I turned around to check where that little toddler boy ran off to and suddenly I see he’s in grade 2, reading Harry Potter voraciously and learning bad language everytime I turn around.
I’d like to point out that Harry Potter is thanks to me and the bad language is all thanks to his dad, of course.
But he used to be this little, this entranced, this utterly absorbed in the beautiful, simple things that life brings.
He used to be this squeamish – with a good dash of underlying delight – about bubbles popping on his face, like the big scary soap monsters they are.
Or just as glad to run after bubbles, even when they were far, far above your little head, because you never know when they might float back to within your reach.
But perhaps not much has changed after all, excepting a height increase and a better vocabulary.
And that’s good, because he’s never allowed to leave his momma.
**shuffling over to drop a Toonie in his future therapy jar**