Big Bubble

Lyla missed her friend Oliver's first birthday party because she was sick, so we headed over there for a breakfast play-date this morning.

In Lyla's bag of party favors was a bottle of bubbles, or, as it should be called to more accurately reflect its addictive power over children, cocaine.

I'm tempted to craft a letter to the corporate honchos at Big Bubble and inquire as to what exactly the recipe is. "Soap and water, sir," will be the reply. Sure, sure. Whenever Lyla discovers that a room contains bubbles, she cranks the steering wheel of her life away from friends, family, and other amusements, and devotes every resource at her disposal to ensuring that someone, anyone, blows those bubbles right now. That's not soap and water, it's crack.

Nevertheless, here is photographic proof that the child does try to be polite. Those are the bubbles in her hand. You can read her face yourself.


Incidentally, that's a Curious George tat on her arm. We considered the small of her back, but a monkey tramp stamp on a toddler is not classy.

"Lyla, let's get a picture of you, Dada, and Oliver."


And all she's thinking is "Bubbles bubbles bubbles bubbles bubbles."

"Come to Dada's knee, Lyla. One kid on each knee, practice for when you're a big sister!"

It was all too much to bear.


"NOOOOO! Bub-buzz!"

We did give her several hits of bubbles, and she was borderline satisfied until she decided she wanted more, more, more, just one more, Dada, please, I NEED IT.

And as soon as we left, she crashed.