My son is into Star Wars and really, really, really, wanted a battleship cruiser (or something like that). It was expensive so we said this was an early birthday present. And he is really good about not asking (ok, not begging) for things everywhere we go and, well, he is our one and only child, so ok, we spoil him.
He and I go to the store to buy this colossal box and return home immediately to assemble this, the “most-awesome-gift-ever-thank-you-so-much”. Here is the trick, this thing requires assembling 1,180 Lego pieces, ranging from small to minute, in the right sequence and in the right place. There are two, yes, two, instruction manuals because all the instructions can’t fit into the first manual that is the thickness of, say, telephone books for most towns across America.
Who was I kidding — my son got distracted with the easily-assembled action figures almost immediately, leaving me with the assembly of the mother ship. I learned many things from this experience (which isn’t over by a long shot), the most important of which is that I need a stronger bifocal prescription.
Within an hour of starting the assemblage, POB (partner of blogger) takes my son off to a playdate in Brooklyn, leaving me on the floor with 1,180 pieces of a battleship. Two hours later, I am still on the floor. I go to the gym for 45 minutes but really can’t focus because I must conquer the Lego monster that is in pieces on the floor. The box says “For ages 9 through 12.” Hah!! I don’t know anyone that young that has a PhD in Lego construction.
POB and son come home to find me on the floor of his room, in a defeated, “woe is me,” pose. I simply need to take a nap. POB eyes me with that “you’re a wimp but I love you” look as I take to my bed with great pomp and ceremony.
That night is our date night, so we leave our young prince in the capable hands of a wonderful young woman studying to be a special ed teacher. When we get home, our babysitter says to me, “G-d bless you for trying to put together that Lego thing! It is impossible!!” Ahh, validation. Still, POB eyes both of us with suspicion.
Next morning I wake up (later than POB and our son because, well, my son may be a prince, but I am the Queen) and POB says, “Omigod, that LEGO thing is impossible!! I tried to attach some things, but I think I did it all wrong. It is insane!!” Ahh, validation.
I look and she got it backwards AND upside-down. Impressive.
My hopes of a project with my son are dashed. But I take appreciation — and, ahh, validation — where I can get it.
And I am reveling in it!!
