My love/hate relationship...with Legos

Here are some facts which you may already know about me, and which will help you to better understand the rest of this post:

1. I am a slightly obsessive neatnik.

2. I love order, despise chaos, and fight clutter everywhere I go.

3. I might be slightly weird.

3. I have a young son.

4. The young son has amassed an impressive collection of Legos.


Legos are awesome. I had them when I was a kid. They inspire creativity and flexibility in thought. They teach design and also give ample opportunities for re-design; they encourage children to explore their engineering tendencies, and they nurture the need to build stuff. They might even help kids develop a better understanding of spatial relationships.

Let's not forget, too, that Legos make a splendid gift for a little boy. They're the fail-safe idea, the sure-to-go-over-well item. Even duplicate sets don't really pose any problems, because everyone knows that after the initial construction of the prescribed toy, all those carefully assembled blocks will be torn apart and re-used over and over again, never in the same way twice.

But it's the dead of winter, the temperatures have been downright bitter, and we've spent way more time indoors than I would like. Which means that the Legos have barely had time to rest in their big plastic bin before some hand has been riffling through them roughly, searching for just the right piece.

Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, and maybe I've been experiencing some PMS moments worsened by little daylight and even less fresh air. Maybe. All I know is that lately, the sound of Legos, and the sight of them filling the living room floor, is enough to make me want to run away and hide somewhere. Honestly, it's mostly the noise they make. When the Legos are still, they're silent—but they're rarely still. They're usually being moved quickly and often, which means they're exceptionally loud and unsettling to a freaky person such as me. I can handle the mess, because we pick up the worst of it and store it at night, but that rattling sound of brittle plastic being raked repeatedly against more brittle plastic... sometimes, I can barely endure it.

Please don't think I am too strange. Some days, I am the one responsible for that very sound as I'm poring through the piles of blocks, searching for tiny tools or miniature propellers or such. Then, I hardly notice the noise because I am so involved in the search. Other days, I'm completely immersed in some other activity and immune to that annoying racket.

And then, there are the times of which I am speaking right now.

Can I get an Amen, Sister?

Bear’s family, discovered (another oldie)

Marcus has a small stuffed bear that he loves. Actually, he has three. All have come from the same bin of bears at IKEA Department Store. (It’s a great bear—Blund Soft Toy—and it’s just $1.99. IKEA—you can’t beat it with a stick.)

I purchased the first bear many years ago, when I bought one for my niece. I couldn’t pass it up and I was into collecting bears at the time. This initial bear is a light tan, and he used to sit on my bed.

Then I became pregnant. I was so pleased with tan bear that I thought I should get one for baby—it’s soft, has no buttons, has sewn-on features, is very flexible and smushy and easy to hold onto… it’s a perfect bear for a baby. So, I returned to IKEA and found the bin of bears, which were now chestnut brown. In every other way, though, they were exact replicas of tan bear on my bed. So I bought one.

After Marcus was a few months old, he began to attach himself to Brown Bear. Eventually, he slept with Bear, chewed on him, hugged him, played with him… they were inseparable. After carting the bear to a few homes and events, I became concerned: what if we inadvertently left Bear somewhere? What if he fell from the car as we entered or exited and was then tragically squashed by a tire? We needed this bear. It was Marcus’ only lovey. So, the next time I visited IKEA’s neighborhood, I purchased yet another bear; Marcus was still pretty small at the time and he was sitting in his car seat inside the shopping cart, so I simply picked out brown bear #2 and handed it to him; Marcus appreciatively chewed on his face. We paid for the soggy thing, thus purchasing a bit of lost bear insurance.

Fast forward a few months; Todd and I were at IKEA yet again, purchasing an entertainment center with a much-needed door to hide things inside from the kid (this is another topic altogether). On the way to pick up components for the center, we stopped off to get some baby safety products such as additional outlet covers and drawer stoppers. Lo and behold, these safety items were located right behind the bin of bears.

“Let’s see if he notices,” I said, pointing to the bin. Todd nodded and we rolled the shopping cart very slowly and deliberately past the bin. Marcus, seated in the cart, was looking around absently, tired of shopping (we’d been there awhile). He glanced at the bin, and then after a moment, he gazed anew upon it. He even leaned in for a closer look. There they were, scores of Bears, all staring back at him, some upside down or half emerging from under another bear, some embracing each other… Marcus made a barely audible utterance, a sweet sound of recognition, a breathy mix of “ah” and “hey.” He reached for the pile of bears, unable to grasp one but likely snagging a handful of them in his imagination. It was such a dear moment, his sudden focus and delight, his chubby paw reaching out as he leaned toward an entire bin of his small, brown buddies. I had a stupid, fleeting thought that we should buy a whole bunch of them, take them home, put them in a pile and just let him sink into that soft, safe, welcoming lap of many little brown friends… and then common sense returned to me and we hurriedly left the bear aisle before our child could pitch a snit that all his bear pals were staying put while we walked away.

On that day at IKEA, Marcus glimpsed Bear’s whole family. It was pure sweetness.

P.S. Update: I just looked online, and this bear is out of production. As a result, parents are paying ridiculous amounts of money to find replacements on Ebay. If you have one of them? In good condition? Think about selling that thang.

Bright spots

To make up for the vitriolic ire of some of my recent posts, here are two really uplifting websites—both of them the brainchildren of kindhearted people. I'm so inspired when I see fellow humans choose to do something generous and thoughtful instead of taking the far easier path of selfishness and loathing.

(Once again, stupid Blogger is not allowing me to insert live links...!!?? Sorry about the inconvenience.)

I just read about this gal in the newspaper:

www.secretagentl.com

And this is one I've known about for awhile, thanks to a great blog I read sometimes (if you're a crafter, take note):

www.thetoysociety.blogspot.com

Hope they make your day better!

Toys, and what they tell

These (pictured at left) are the sorts of toys that kids used to treasure. Long before Bratz, Transformers and Wii topped Christmas lists, plain old handmade playthings were the cherished items in a child’s world. I re-read some sections from Laura Ingalls Wilder’s wonderful Little House series of books, and was astounded to be reminded of that little girl’s joy upon receiving a little tin cup, a cake baked with white sugar, and a penny. Her very own penny.

It made me more than nostalgic; it made me ill. Not because she lacked so much, not that at all—but because we take so much for granted, and squander what we’re given. And it’s not just the thanklessness and wastefulness that’s horrible: we also don’t cherish much of anything at all, including each other. The toys were simple back then, and if one were lost (Laura’s rag doll disappeared for months after she was forced to give it away—she mourned ceaselessly until rediscovering it in a frozen puddle) then the kid simply went without, made her own toys, borrowed a sibling’s for a moment. Children didn’t have 25 other things to choose from. Perhaps the well-to-do kids had plenty of toys back in the day, but I’m fairly certain they weren’t electronic robots or dogs and cats that you plugged into a computer to care for.

Our modern grown-up toys aren’t much better. How many grownups with too much spending money stood in line for days, awaiting the release of the newest PlayStation? Or scrambled among other crazed shoppers, trying to secure the latest iPhone? Aren’t foolish amounts of money spent on boats, ATVs, snowmobiles? And those are just expensive toys, for most of us—I don’t know a single person who uses one of those items for income purposes or to assist in the management of a business. Sony is releasing a 120-inch television; hello, did anyone else out there read Fahrenheit 451? Remember the huge TV screens that made up a wall of one’s home? Sound familiar? And how many idiots will join a waiting list to buy one for their home theater systems?

After Christmas passed recently, I had to step away from the entire subject for a few weeks because this year, it went beyond reminding me of how materialistic and commercialized Christmas has become: I became inextricably immersed in the understanding that our entire culture is backwards. I hear this at church, and I know in my head it’s true…but when my heart truly grasps it, I just need to sit down and let the queasiness pass.

We’re seriously screwed up. Most of the time, in most households, our priorities are very misplaced.

And I’m no better. Here I sit, typing this pointless entry in an online journal that I don’t need, which does not support me and does nothing to forward the betterment of humanity. It helps me a little, helps me to organize thoughts, to rid myself of frustrations, but honestly, it’s no different from any of the other useless pursuits, toys or otherwise, that my fellow modern civilized folks are chasing. Being online? All it does is permit me to avoid people while still laboring under the delusion that I’m reaching out. Why are kids so into texting? MySpace? iPods? Those tools allow them to avoid each other, to stay somewhat removed from messy, risky personal involvement with anyone. We grownups are no different.

Back in frontier days, toys were simpler and life was simpler. Most time was spent surviving, so free time for adults was minimal, and toys for adults were likely unheard of, at least until the past century. Very few people made it on their own—teamwork was a must. Life spans were shorter; kids became adults much sooner. No one had time to try to create “time-saving” technology. Families waited for the children to become old enough to help, and then put them to work; no one was agonizing about whether or not they’d find an Elmo like Junior wanted, or whether the DVD they’d picked up for Little Miss had the extra features on it.

Is this progress, really? Yeah, people live longer. Yeah, I saw on PBS where they’re using stem cells to regenerate a dead rat’s heart in some lab in Missouri. Yeah, that’s amazing. But is it progress? Should we be proud of a civilization that has advanced itself enough to support people in need, but chooses instead to upgrade versions once again? Or even worse, agonizes over which scripted reality star is targeted this week? I have a hard time imagining life in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s time; I have an even harder time trying to imagine how disappointed she’d be if she saw what we’ve become in such a short time.

Is it only me? Or are some of you concerned, too?