Trust me it is a word that I hear hundreds of times a day. Sometimes she is telling me doesn't want to have her diaper changed. Sometimes she is telling me that she doesn't want waffles for breakfast, or eggs, or oatmeal, or a banana. Sometimes she is telling me that she doesn't want to get in the car, go to the store, put on her shoes, wear a barrette, hold her cup. Sometimes she is telling the cat that she doesn't not want her in the same room or on her blanket or breathing. Sometimes she is telling Rylan that she doesn't want to share, or Gramma that she isn't interested in talking on the phone.
Sometimes she just says NO over and over, in different tones, different pitches, different volumes. Sometimes NO is a statement. Sometimes it's a question. Sometimes it is her way of tattling on herself.
This is all to say I hear NO more than I care to count.
There have been days when every utterance incorporates the word bubbles.
She has asked for bubbles first thing in the morning.
Last thing in the evening. During lunch.
On our way to Target. Playing on the slide.
Going 70 miles per hour down I75 to pick up Aunt Nikki...Bubbles, bubbles, BUBBLES.
Occasionally it is posed as a sweet question: Bubbles, mama?
Occasionally it is posed as a threat: BuBBLES! BuBBLEs. BuBBLEs!
Once in awhile it is an after thought: Bubbles?
More often than not, it is a deep, relentless desire: Bubbles. Mama, bubbles. Bub.Bles. Peas, bubbles? Bubbles.
I usually give in. We blow bubbles outside. She takes bubble baths. I fill the sink up with bubbles and she splashes - and all is right in her 20 month old universe.