You're Not the Boss of Me

Saturday afternoon I was trying to get Abby down for a desperately needed nap (her, not me) but Sam and Jake were following me from room to room. I don't think they intended to do it, but soon after I left the living room to rock Abby in the nursery, they both came stomping up the stairs. I headed back down to rock her in the guest room and they followed to play in the den. In each room they unloaded baskets of toys and left a mess a tornado would envy.

After they followed me back to Abby's nursery and starting unloading the drawers under their train table, I finally spoke up.

"Is it really necessary to make such a mess? What are you looking for?"

"Lego Star Wars," Sam told me.

Now, let me pause the 'story' to say that whoever invented Legos hates parents. Or hates kids. Maybe both. They should not be called toys. They should be called Tiny Bricks O'Pain or Frustration Squares. No toy with 1000 pieces should be marketed to kids. But they are and kids love them.

"Sam, there are no Lego Star Wars under your train table," I said.

I know this because I bought two Tupperware 'tackle boxes' to hold all their Lego Star Wars. I know this because if there are Lego Star Wars anywhere, it is in the lint trap of the dryer or my purse or the pocket of my bathrobe or under the couch where I've kicked them at 3 in the morning.

I shut the door behind me and went back to rocking Abby when I heard Sam tell Jake, "You heard the boss. No Legos in here."