My five-year-old was recently given his first “big kid” Legos (i.e., not the “little kid” Duplo variety). And thus was ushered in a period of my life that will be marked by much gnashing of teeth, near-constant swearing, and heavy drinking.
I don’t like Legos all that much. Someone gave me a set when I was probably around my son’s age and I played with them all of five minutes before putting them back in the box and never opening it again. I just don’t get the appeal. I’m not an anti-Legoite or anything. I guess I just prefer building things with words rather than little plastic bricks.
Although my son could make things without much assistance with the Duplo blocks, these Legos are a bit more challenging for him. Maybe because most of them are about the size of a baby’s fingernail and adhere to one another as if they were Super Glued together (unless when you want them to stay together, and then they collapse into a sad heap of multi-colored rubble). Speaking of fingernails, mine have been reduced to jagged nubs at this point from prying the damned things apart. I haven’t had a manicure since 2008, and I was thinking about having my husband spring for one for Mother’s Day, but as long as we have Legos around here, why bother?
It’s not only nails that fall victim to these insidious little building blocks. Have you ever stepped on one of the fuckers in your bare feet? I feel certain the CIA interrogates prisoners by having them walk across large swathes of scattered Legos. And then makes them pry them apart for hours at a time.
Since Legos have come into our lives, I have been unable to drink an entire cup of coffee, complete a single e-mail, or take a shower without being interrupted at least a half a dozen times by my son’s wailing and whining due to some Lego-induced crisis. It’s like he’s a newborn all over again, except instead of needing to be nursed, changed, or comforted, he needs help with his stupid Legos.
On a weirdly related note (weird because I had started writing this blog entry yesterday morning), last night my father-in-law e-mailed from Billund, Denmark—the home of Legos– where he traveled to on a business trip. He wanted us to let his grandson know that he was spending a night at the Legoland Hotel and would we like for him to get some more Legos for the kid? Why, yes, of course. Because I still have a modicum of my fingernails, feeling in my feet, and sanity left.
And—I swear I am not making this up–before I could finish writing this, I was called away due to a Lego emergency.