Legos are magical for fathers and sons

I cried myself to sleep last night. It wasn’t the first time and probably won’t be the last.

What, you ask, was the culprit? Why, a Lego, of course. A Lego under my bare foot, in my living room, right before bedtime. Not a good way to end the day.

My 2-year-old son and my 4-year-old husband (at heart only) love to play with Legos in my living room. Joshua the Boy Wonder will drag his plastic container out into the middle of everything, dump the container out and stretch his arms waaay up to make sure there are no Legos left in the container.

He’ll plunk himself in the middle of all the loose Legos and go to work. He always builds the same thing — a multi-colored stick — and he’ll wave it around saying, “Mama, look what I make! A peacock!” Or sometimes it’s an airplane or a giraffe, but it’s never just a stick.

Joshua spends hours sitting on the floor, creating kingdoms of Lego creations. After a while, Joshua’s silly dad, Bryan, will have to move to the floor, too. He just can’t stand seeing Joshua have all the fun.

Legos create a magical bond between a man and his son — a bond that no mom can ever duplicate. Legos speak to the budding engineer in the boy and the creative boy in the man.

When the Legos come out, I step back and let the fun begin.

The two will sit there, building boats, buildings, animals ... whatever strikes their fancy. Well, Bryan will do most of the building and Joshua will wait patiently until it is time to destroy whatever Bryan worked to build. This weekend, the bigger of the two boys built a dumptruck, filled the back with loose Legos, then pushed the truck around the floor and make “Vroooom,” noises. The littler Cornish was intrigued, took the dumptruck and immediately dismantled it.

The Lego-building sessions usually end in tickle fights (I’m not sure why, but they do) with both boys screaming like little girls. Oh, and sometimes a flying football pillow is involved.

Perhaps it’s because my boys are too busy wrestling and laughing on the floor they forget what should be the last part of the play session: the clean up.

Hence, the Lego under my foot.

I’ve been trying to get my son to clean up after himself (and my hubby and myself to do the same, for that matter). I’ve tried everything, including the clean-up song: “Clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere, clean up, clean up, everybody do their share.”

I learned on Monday, however, that my efforts are fruitless. Daddy didn’t have to work, so I left him in charge for the day. When I got home from work late, late in the day, Joshua was still in his pajamas and my house looked like it had been ransacked by an angry mob of 2-year-olds.

And both my boys were exhausted. Joshua was tucked in his bed, sound asleep, and Bryan was slumped over a model ship, eyes half-closed, trying to act like he wasn’t tired.

It was one of those Visa priceless moments.

One that I wouldn’t trade for anything. I guess, in hindsight, stepping on a Lego is a small price to pay for the bonding between a father and son.

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