“You don’t know what kind of person you really are until you’ve stepped on a Lego.”
I said that to a friend on Facebook the other day, half-joking. But it’s true! The obstacles of parenthood are many, but there are few that can stand toe-to-toe with the dreaded Lego block. And don’t be fooled; those tiny little pieces are the devil. I stepped on a Lego man’s helmet the other day, ends pointed up, and I thought I was going to lose my left foot. A plethora of swear words came pouring out of my mouth and Connor, our one year old, just stood there gawking at me. He then shook his head as if to say, “Mom, you cray” and sauntered back down the hall.
I don’t want to believe that my boys are leaving these random pieces around for my feet to find, but I’m starting to believe that my boys are leaving these random pieces around for my feet to find. Catch my drift? ‘Cause Lego blocks don’t place themselves (or, at least, I hope not), and yet they’re always around. The kids are only allowed to play with said devil-blocks in their room, so how they’re ending up in the pantry, etc. is beyond me. I even straight-up jacked all the clear ones because those little turds genuinely piss me off. “Oh, you hurt me AND you’re trying to be stealthy? AW HELL NO!”
The other night, in fact, I was walking towards my room when, suddenly, three Legos and a couple of Lincoln Logs came from out of nowhere. A block took me by surprise, first. I jumped, pained, and landed smartly on a Lincoln Log. I repeated that ungraceful Merengue until finally I escaped the mine field of toy death traps. I’d been down the hallway a million times that evening getting the kids bathed, putting Connor down, making several trips with folded laundry… and not once had I committed foot suicide. But there, at midnight, my feet fell victim to toy tyranny. And once more, an overflow of four letter words erupted, waking up Connor, causing another slew of curses – this time silent. There’s a game being played here, I just know it. Is someone filming the sequel to The Lego Movie in my house without telling me? A heads up would be groovy.
I’ve stepped on, kicked, and been pelted with many a toy, but Legos are by far my arch-frenemy. Frenemy, because it’s all fun and games until someone steps on a tiny red brick that has it out for a pinky toe. Plus, Gabe loves them, so they can’t be all bad, right? ….I’ll get back to you on that about midnight when I’m hopping up and down, writhing in pain.
Childbirth? No problem. Broken arm? Cake walk. Lego lodged in foot? I don’t want pink at my funeral.
Dramatic, much? I’ll let you be the judge of that. The only worse pain I’ve ever felt, and it was more out of embarrassment than anything, was the time I was walking down a sidewalk in DC and somehow managed to plant both feet in the middle of a newspaper bundle ring, which sent me flying a good five feet until I belly-flopped on the scalding, hard pavement. That was more humbling to me than even my latest OBGYN visit. But in comparison to Lego stomping…? That’s a tough one to call.