It’s a complex relationship that causes me both joy and pain.
Creates beautiful memories and reduces me to tears.
Encourages my children to learn new things and then develops their destructive ways.
Makes me proud of what we can achieve yet causes me to scream and rage at its brutal attempts to hurt me.
What relationship am I talking about?
That one most parents of kids of a certain age have.
The relationship between a parent and Lego.
I hate it as much as I love it.
Those pretty, perfectly formed squares and rectangles, with 4 pointy points have caused me, on too many occasions, to cry, scream and curse the day we bought that first damn kit.
Stupidly and naively I thought my children would be so amazed by their parents’ ability to turn a jumble of randomly coloured bricks into a helicopter, mine, boat and numerous cars that they wouldn’t even entertain the idea of taking them apart.
I was so wrong, so so incredibly, stupidly naively wrong.
Each creation lasts for about 10 minutes or so before being reduced to a pile of blocks reminiscent of the aftermath of King Kong Gone Wild.
Every time one of these glorious creations is destroyed I want to weep. Because I know that pile of bricks will never look as beautiful again.
An important, intrinsic to the design, piece will go forever missing. Or a page from the instruction booklet will be torn out and eaten.
After a few attempts to refashion the blocks into their former glorious glory I quietly give up, sulking in a corner, feeling slight anger, much despair and frustration that Lego failed to supply super glue with the set.
I hate Lego, I hate all its corners, the stupid pretty colours, I hate how Play Doh gets stuck in the stupid holes, I hate how it hides in the rug, I hate how easily the stupid pieces get sucked up the hoover and I hate the stupid girl version with the their ridiculous limbs and big heads
“But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you,
Not even close,
Not even a little bit,
Not even at all.”
Linking to Ranty Friday with Mummy Barrow