A low-key Saturday afternoon at home. I’m upstairs getting ready to take Son #2 to get a haircut. Son #1 is down the hall sequestered in his bedroom – supposedly doing homework, but more likely watching YouTube or Netflix. He has an invisible force field protecting him from any attempts at intrusion by me, more conventionally known as “noise cancelling headphones”. As it turns out, I am the noise to be cancelled. I regret the day I agreed to buy this diabolical device for him.
Son #2 is just as remote, but he has chosen physical distance as his weapon of choice – he’s in the basement. Two floors between us. He might as well be on the moon. I feel too lazy to go down the stairs to tell him to get dressed to go out. Yelling down is quicker, but less effective – unless I shout through the laundry chute, which only raises the likelihood of getting his attention to the odds of his ever actually getting ON the moon. I resort to my only realistic option, the sure-fire way of getting his attention – I text him.
Son #2 grows hair faster than Canadian weed cultivated in a hydroponic warehouse. We are regular attendees at the salon and all the haircutters recognize us as soon as we walk in. Son #2 asks for “the usual” – essentially a buzz cut. A few minutes later he greets me at the cash and remarks, ”Five pounds lighter and ten degrees cooler”. I concur with this pithy pronouncement on his post-haircut predicament.
We return home to face the Legos. This situation is far more in my control than the rate of Son #2’s hair growth. The combination of his passion for Legos and my desire to make him happy has led to a toxic love-infused stockpile of Legos in our basement. Most of the time they are stored in several large bins. But occasionally they break free of their constraints, usually when Son #2 is inspired to build something “special”, and then thousands of them spill out onto the basement floor like a toxic tide of a multi-coloured invasive species.
As with any infestation, initially I attempt to ignore the reality in the hope that it will run its course and disappear. When I finally come to terms with the fact that the problem isn’t going away, I go into attack mode and call the exterminator – in this case, Son #2. Now the battle of wills begins, he and the Legos on one side (aided and abetted by inertia) and I on the opposite side (armed and dangerous with my OCD). By the end of day, we will likely be bloodied, bruised and not speaking to each other. He will bring in reinforcements colloquially referred to as “attitude” and I will counter with threats. I will break down and help him clean up the mess. The battle will end in an uneasy truce – until the Legos and hostilities break out the next time.
I sigh. How do I smooth things over? Of course! The greatest gift parents can offer to unhappy kids – ordering in pizza!! Perhaps Son #1 will even come out of hiding long enough to watch a movie with us.
NOTE: An edited version of this essay was published in the April/May 2021 edition of Reader’s Digest Our Canada magazine. Click here to read it.
My son would assemble the LEGO kits according to the instructions—Wilderness Fort, Knights and Castles—and then leave them assembled in his room forever. It got so crowded in there we couldn’t walk to the window to open the curtains. When he left for university I took them all apart and stored them in Rubbermaid containers along with the original instructions. They’ve been in the garage for ten years awaiting the next generation of LEGO builders.
Yes, my experience is that Lego builders fall into one of two categories – the ones who keep the kits assembled (your son) and the ones who tear them apart so they can be “repurposed” (my son). Impressive that you have kept all the kits and instructions together for future assembling! Thanks for the insight.
My youngest was addicted to LEGO (probably still is and he’s almost 34) and for years he asked for intricate kits from ‘Santa’.
One year he asked for this Star Wars spaceship thing. He had it well under way mid afternoon post stocking/pre- turkey dinner when all of a sudden he lost it in frustration and long story short – turns out one crucial bunch of pieces he needed was missing. He and we looked everywhere and this pieces were definitely not included in the kit and none of the other kits had anything that fit. I can’t remember if we got the required piece from the company but that was the last year he asked for LEGO for Christmas.
He had the ‘mom cancelling ‘ headphones too – went through a series of them (post LEGO). Now he can’t hear me because we live far away ( we do FaceTime but can’t plan visits). I like to think he misses me.
Great writing as always!
Yes, we’ve had our share of LEGO meltdowns in this house as well. A missing piece, especially at Christmas, would be especially disappointing – but, as we always say when writing, makes for a memorable story!! Thanks for sharing. Tough time for families to be separated right now. Thank heavens for our modern technology, but it’s still not the same. …