Legos

My son never asks me to play Legos.  

It's something he and his Daddy do together.  

So when he asked me the other day (Daddy was at work, and I was second choice, but whatever, I'll take it), I made a big deal out of how flattered I was to play.  

I immediately sat down, grabbed the Lego Star Fighter he had made and begin to fly it around the room, saying "Ptchew, Ptchew," like I had seen  him and his Daddy do.

"No, no, no!" Boyo said, very distraught.  "Dat's NOT how we pway!"

"Oh, okay,"  I said surprised.  "How do we play?"

"You go through the box to find the Storm Trooper's head," he instructed me.

I began to get the feeling that I was being played -- not getting to play, rather my Mommy finding skills were being dug out.  

 

So I spent the next hour, digging through this:  

To find a head for this: 

That's love, people.

And while I was digging, I unearthed all sorts of Lego weapons.  Apparently, Lego men have organized and created a militia.  Who knew?

And it quickly became VERY apparent that I was raised with three sisters.

"Here's a tree," I told my son.

"That's a grappling hook," he informed me.

"Oh.  Well, here's a wrench."

"That's a storm trooper arm," he said.

"Oh.  Well, here's a knife," I told him.

"MOM.  That's a sword.  Maybe we should wait for Daddy to come home."

I'm not sure if I'm sad to be fired or relieved.