My nephew as an infectious laugh.
It makes you want to laugh. It makes you want to make him laugh again.
Today we blew bubbles on the veranda. He thought he could blow bubbles just as well as I could (seeing he is just past the magnificent age of 1, where you know practically everything there is to know, and if you don’t know it, then it’s not that interesting). So I let him dip the bubble blower into the mixture and wave it around. And he did it. He whipped out a few bubbles from that bubble-stick. He also managed to throw some bubble mixture in my mouth.
I don’t like eating bubble mixture. You might not know this, if you aren’t a bubble-mixture-eater yourself, but it doesn’t taste very good. Soap, mostly. Slimy, secondly. I didn’t enjoy the experience.
I screwed up my face and said “Eew!”
My nephew thought that was great.
I do lots of thing to amuse my nephew. Like piggy-back rides. Or playing peek-a-boo through the stairs. Or doing a crazy dance. Or catching him when he jumps off the table (I taught him to jump off the table, being the good-auntie I am). But I don’t eat soap for his own satisfaction.
Still, he thought it was funny. My face. My disgust. And he thought eating bubbles must be a fun thing.
So he had a go.
After that I made faces and said, emphatically, “Eew!” and my nephew stuck his finger in the mixture, tasted and screwed up his own little faces. He stuck out his tongue. I stuck out mine. But I didn’t taste the mixture again. No offense, my little nephew, but I don’t get a kick out of having soap in my mouth. Apparently he does.