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?

Don't give my regards to Broadway

So, we were watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade. For a little while, at least. I turned it on, thinking I'd get a brief kid-talk hiatus in which to prepare sweet potatoes in peace. It had worked on me when I was a kid, hadn't it? Lots of floats, huge balloons shaped like cartoon characters, hordes of people, the occasional band marching... at least that was how I recalled it.

Not so these days. We flicked on the television and chose whatever station featured the least vapid and dull-witted commentators. First they blabbed, sharing prepared quips with all the natural flair of a water buffalo passing through a narrow gate. Then, a ridiculously corny cast of Hair performed a song... holy cow, how old is that show? It's still running? I was not amused but it seemed harmless, so I left the costumed fools prancing and crooning their decades-old song and hurried into the kitchen.

Within a few minutes, the kid was calling me into the living room. "What is this, Mom?" I returned. This time, kids were bouncing around the stage alongside a poorly acted dance instructor who rolled her eyes with gusto (part of the performance); the wise, witty commentators informed us that this fine number was from the play Billy Elliott. Huh? That's a play? Movie, yes. Play? News to me.

I scurried back to finish mashing potatoes, but only a few minutes passed before I heard, "Mom, you gotta see this." I peered back in. Where was the parade? I'd seen one Snoopy balloon, and...that's it. One balloon. In all that time. And on the screen now? Why, a bunch of grown people dressed as characters from the movie Shrek. A man decked out as a heavy-haunched donkey was stomping about madly, singing (or pretending to sing) "I'm a Believer." A green-faced fellow—Shrek himself,of course—sang along with his bride. Another guy was dressed as Pinocchio. All of them were shimmying, shaking, twisting and turning, grinning like mad, all while adorned in the most ludicrous costumes.

So, Shrek is now a Broadway play. Say it isn't so! Is nothing sacred? Broadway used to be more serious, didn't it? Wasn't the stage where "real" actors performed? These days, high theatre has fallen to meet the demands of the unschooled. Todd and I watched the costumed animals cavorting to the music and shook our heads. We wondered aloud: Do people who long to perform on stage all start out in such silly works? And if you land the part of Pinnochio, do you say so on your resume? Do you admit to such a role? I'm guessing you would, that any lead would be a step in the right direction. But at what cost to your pride? What is the price when you consider that your own self-image might be at stake?

If these folks are really enjoying what they do, then I guess it's worth it. But on Thanksgiving Day? To be dressed as a fairy tale character that may or may not be a beast? Knowing that you'll be wearing that disguise many, many more times, dancing the same falsely gleeful dance over and over? I don't know if I can buy that it's terribly fulfilling.

I can't remember if the parade was always this sappy and pro-NY culture, but if it was, I have to believe the plays were better when I was a kid. Every time I think the people can't reach a new low, they exceed my expectations. We've passed from the days of Annie into an age when any movie is fair game for stage interpretation—even those that shouldn't be. And the parade itself has all but disappeared, plowed under by dumbed-down commercialization.

Even my 4-year-old declared, "Time to turn it off!" when three sassy, big-haired gals appeared to perform a song from the new stage production of Dreamgirls. Enough is enough. We know when we're being force-fed the stuff of the masses. Give me Arthur Miller, give me August Wilson, give me turkey instead of more stuffing, and for cryin' out loud get some floats and balloons moving through this route, PDQ.

Kids will be kids

The folks next door have a young granddaughter who’s just a week older than Marcus. The two have occasionally played when she’s been visiting, spontaneous playtimes that happened because they and we happened to be out back at the same time and we encouraged the two children to interact. They’re usually shy with each other at first, and then start giggling and running around like little buddies.

These days, they’re both a bit more outgoing, so when we stepped onto the patio recently, there was the little girl (I’ll call her Arlene) swinging in her little swing, waiting for some fun. She hollered out, “Hi, Marcus!” And he looked back at me, a shy, embarrassed smile on his face. I told him he could go ahead and say hello to her, and he did.

“Do you want to go over there and say hello?” I asked him.

“No, not right now.” But he kept looking down at her to see what she was doing.

“Do you want to ask her if she wants to play in the sandbox with you?”

“Okay, but you come with me.” I agreed and we strolled down the slight hill between our yards toward the tree that houses the swing. Arlene had obviously been hoping he’d come over to chat, and she slid out of the swing and took a few steps toward him. She’s a pretty little thing, a slim miss with soft brown hair and lovely hazel eyes; as soon as Marcus put the invitation out there, she said yes and started over toward our yard.

“Arlene, why don’t you let your mom know where you’ll be so she doesn’t worry when she doesn’t see you swinging?” Arlene hurried up the back steps to alert the adults inside. A minute later, she popped back out, followed by Grandma, who looked concerned—had she been invited? Would she be a bother? No, no, we’d asked her to come over, I assured her.

The two of them began playing in the sand, then with trucks, then chalk, and finally they were riding around like mad on two of the bevy of huge plastic riding toys that have infiltrated the perimeters of my home. She stayed for nearly an hour, but then we needed to eat lunch. I thought of inviting her to stay, but decided that the excitement would be too great and Marcus wouldn’t touch a bite—not good, since we still had more visiting to come later that day, and I needed him to get some food in him. We walked Arlene to her grandparents’ door and explained that we were eating lunch now. We thanked her for visiting and said we’d see her later.

Of course, Marcus turned shy again and, after lunch, declined to go outside even though he could see Arlene on the swing, patiently waiting for more fun. When Daddy popped outside for something, I heard her immediately ask about Marcus’ whereabouts. Was he coming back out? Daddy explained that Marcus preferred to stay in just now, but perhaps he’d come out later. I let Marcus know that Arlene was hoping to play again, and that I wanted to go out but I knew she would ask about him… After some wheedling, the boy finally agreed to go back out. He decided he would take the puppets that he’d been playing with.

As soon as he was out the door, he yelled down to Arlene, “Wanna play with puppets?” She nodded vigorously and ran up to the back door, out of our sight, to again alert parents and grandparents. And then, she did not come back. And she did not come back. He waited, and watched for her return, and began to set up the puppet show, all the while glancing over. “Wonder where she is?” he asked. I explained that perhaps she had not been allowed to come over. Maybe they were eating now. Maybe there were other folks visiting who wanted to see her. Minutes passed, and no Arlene appeared.

And then I heard giggles, kid voices. He did too, and we both looked over at the house, but to no avail—no child in sight. “That was probably the other neighbors down the street,” I said. He agreed. As he manipulated a puppet, I stood, grabbed the broom, and began to sweep the patio, simultaneously attempting a covert look over at the neighbors’ yard. What?! I saw a flash of pink three doors up from us. On the other neighbor boy’s swingset. I quickly averted my gaze so as not to arouse interest from Marcus. I changed the subject, too: “Maybe you could use the back of the patio chair as your puppet platform? Then you can hide behind it?”

While he tried that out, I continued sweeping, moving closer to the patio’s edge to find a better view. That smidge of pink was Arlene, all right—the little minx had gone three doors up to see the boy with the full-size swingset and slide combo. There they were, sliding and swinging away, while my sweet, unsuspecting child played puppets all alone. Even as they frolicked just out of his view, he turned to me and motioned with his head and eyes to the house next door: “Probably asking her mom if it’s okay to come over.” He had no idea she was a traitor; he was giving her every benefit of the doubt.

I wanted to weep a little. I smiled instead, and said, “Probably.” And then I hunkered down to play puppets with him. And I thought, Oh Lord, how will this look 10 years from now, when he’s got a crush on the traitorous little girl? What will it be like when it’s his best friend who’s having another pal sleep over, or going with a different buddy to get pizza? How will I handle all his disappointments to come? After awhile I didn’t hear any kid noises, and I assumed the coast was clear, while he assumed aloud that his friend had not been allowed to come over to play. Life went on.

I wish I could protect him—from reality, from little and big hurts, from the inevitable letdowns of friends. But I can’t. I suppose it’s only going to get rougher from here on out.