Ah, bubbles. On the back porch of my parent’s house in Bloomington Indiana (well the old house, that isn’t the oldest house, but is the last house before the house mom is in now). Over the course of the summer, we would wander down to Bloomington several times. Mom always had artistic and fun activities for the kids. In this case, it was bubbles. I am not sure why bubbles are so intriguing and interesting, but they are.
It is fun to create them, to see how high into the sky they will go. The smaller bubbles are more resilient and fly higher; the larger bubbles are spread thin and more likely to pop, but still fun. There is the contest as well, the blower creating the bubbles, the popper chasing them each one a target for an outstretched finger. The blower job to blow until there are more bubbles in the air than the popper can pop.
The popper, of course, chasing the bubbles, soon exhausted and ready for a nap. That is when you switch roles. Unless you are the adult, then you are always the blower. I no longer chase the whims of bubbles, I just try to create them, get at least one passed the poppers. The poppers were good though. Few of my blown bubbles escaped the evil poppers and making it into the sky looking back down upon us, and thinking I am glad to be free of popping.
Then, of course, the bubbles popped on their own, and we started over again and again!