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.
