Charles has an incredible love of Lego’s. It’s a shock, I know, being that he’s male and all. Before we married, he purchased a ‘really cool’ set of Lego’s. Cool in that there were a ton of small pieces that came in a container that had a handle, so we didn’t have to rely on a box that would grow shabby and weak with time.
When playing with Lego’s, I believe that he’s secretly reliving his youth, and now that he has a partner in crime (i.e., a male offspring) he has an even better excuse to spend endless hours, money and attention to the plastic bits.
BW Loves Lego’s as much as Charles, possibly even more. When he was deemed ‘old enough’ to play with the teeny tiny Lego’s that we’ve all come to know and love (not the clunky, made so you can’t swallow bits of plastic that are endorsed by every parenting magazine available), Charles brought fourth THE BOX.
Yes, THE BOX. The box that holds every single Lego that the man ever owned over the course of his lifetime, as well as the ones that he’s obtained since reaching adulthood. Hundreds possibly even thousands of little bricks. Clear, opaque, round, sharp, pointy, hinged and if you can think of it, it’s probably there.
After THE BOX and its contents were repeatedly put away and pulled out, risking the integrity of THE BOX’s structure, the contents finally found a new home. Thomas the Train and his kinfolk have been relegated to the back of BW’s closet, and it’s former home, the train table, now hosts the multitudes of colorful plastic pieces.
It’s a nightly ritual that once the kids retire to their rooms, BW will knock about for twenty or thirty minutes before timidly coming out and quietly asking if he can go down to the basement and get two or three “Really important pieces, please, please, please?”
We always say yes, as we’ve learned that saying no only prolongs the pain for all of us. And, as is the normal course of things, he knows exactly which pieces he needs and is back in his room with the door closed, quietly making little boy noises in less than five minutes.
He lives Lego’s, dreams Lego’s, and sleeps among the Lego’s. His room has evolved into a type of Lego-graveyard, never to be fully appreciated until summand to the room in the dark of night. Lego’s are murder on the souls of soft bare feet. Torture devices really.
Charles is familiar with and understands this passion, and it is a strong bond that he shares with BW. JB has gotten into the act as well – with pink Lego sets and special bits and pieces formulated to make ‘girl’ things (at her request of course!) but she doesn’t have the never-ending interest that the boys have. She can’t and won’t sit for hours mulling over the designs and possibilities of the creations they come up with.
So strong is this boy bond, that Charles and BW spent four hours and twenty-two minutes building a 1,000 plus pieced space shuttle over the Fourth of July weekend. BW is only six. I never knew he had the stamina to spend that much time on one single activity. I guess I never fully appreciated how strong the pull of plastic can be.
I’m not quite sure what he’ll do if and when he finds a time or place where Lego’s no longer have the mystique they do now. I’m not quite sure what Charles will do either.