I filled the empty shelves of my son’s old bookcase with Lego creations the other day — not his architectural wonders, but mine.
For about eight months now, missing the days when I’d spend hours helping him and his sister put together pirate ships, Star Wars destroyers, Spongebob’s Krusty Krab cafe and Harry Potter’s Hogwart’s Castle, I’ve been reliving those good times with some creative builds of my own. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre Museum, a beach house, The White House and The Beatles’ Yellow Submarine are just a few of the sets I’ve completed and put on display in the family room downstairs.
Last week, while looking at my son’s empty shelves, I decided, “What better place to move them than here?”
For at least nine years, my boy’s bedroom was a minefield of miniature stray blocks, angular fuselage parts and sharp (not to mention tiny) Bionicle weapons. Walking into the room barefoot was like venturing blindfolded into a field of St. Mary’s thistle. Even the cat avoided tiptoeing inside.
A few weeks after putting a complicated set together, my son would always take it apart and dump the Legos into a large bin so that he could then design his own ships and death star bombers. Any parent of an avid brick builder likely knows the sound of the “Lego shuffle,” as hands sift through assorted bins searching for just the right part. That sound filled our home for hours every day, until complex homework assignments, music practice and outings with friends gradually took over.
Now that the sound is back and I’m the one combing through the bin, my son rolls his eyes every Sunday when he visits to do his laundry and join us for dinner. ” Seriously? The Guggenheim Museum? You’re crazy,” he says.
Just wait until he sees my Ferrari. 😮