I am super organised this morning and have time to spare after taking 4yo to school. It’s Late Start Wednesday, so there is much time to be whiled before taking the big boys to school.
We are in the spare room, AKA The Lego Room. Say that again with dread and forboding.


Downstairs is clean and tidy, so I am giving it a well-deserved break, but I forgot that the couch which is usually at the back of the room – and consequently covered in lego – is outside. I keep hurting my elbows on tiny pieces of purgatory.
A friend sent me an article about a mother who built Hogwarts out of lego to regain her zen. I must confess that I didn’t read the entire article because in my mind I was already losing my shit.
I also saw an article about a mother who made the biggest thing ever out of lego that was literally lying around. I thought about that this morning, as I sat down at an under-sized table smeared with sharps, and I even tried it for a minute.


But as I cast my eye around for pieces to put together, I could feel my eyes becoming bloodshot.


I stopped caring about some stupid pseudo masterpiece and got up off the floor, retreating to a safer distance from this brightly coloured hell. Immediately my blood pressure regained an ounce of equilibrium, and I will be better able to drive to school in a few minutes, without driving off the road in a rage.
I might start my childless day with wine when I come back.


Rage Against the Unclean


Nothing gets me raging like the boys hitting each other, except the fucking lego room. It’s an abhorrent mess and I detest going up there.

It started out as a place to play with lego away from a widdle baby who would swallow them if within drooling distance, then became their lego refuge against the world and a way for me to avoid vacuuming them (ok, I rarely vacuum) or stepping on them all the time. That’s fine, but there are other things up there, too. Like all the toys we moved out of the playroom (which is another GD mess and one which gives Husband the night terrors), minus the toys we’ve donated back to charity from whence they came. Bless the parent who pays up to $40 in some cases, for licensed merchandise for my kids to wreak havoc on down the line. Anyhoo, those toys are usually organised somewhat, and loosely packed away in those ikea bins. There’s also a few cupboards, plus the outdoor couch when the weather is not outdoor-friendly, old baby capsule, baby toys, emergency food stores and more whatevers.

Cut to the peace and quiet I assume I’m getting when the boys race upstairs to play with the GD lego… my blood boils, my skin crawls and my adrenaline rushes when I hear the sounds of hitting and screaming and the smashing of lego. I feel their pain when creations become so much plastic rubble; I feel their pain when one brother won’t fucking share; I feel their pain when someone can’t play with these amazing toys made of so many tiny pieces; but do they feel my idiotic frustruction over the point of sharing a handful of special pieces out of ten thousand special pieces? Give me a fucking amen. I storm up there to allay their upset, only to need to escape from there to allay my own. The lego is spread from hell to breakfast around and under the couch. The other toys – which probably haven’t even been played with – are haphazardly in every other corner, windowsill and baby capsule. The cushions from the couch are anywhere but the couch. There was a rug up there, which was sort of an invisible barrier to keep the lego from getting lost in the nether regions of space, but it kept getting rolled up and eating as many lego as it was supposed to save. There is a table, but that is a new addition since the boys claim they are ready to stop throwing furniture and actually use it for its alleged purpose. There are also about twenty plastic tubs specifically for the GD lego, whether they be sorted by colour or just kept off the floor, whether they be sorted by ownership (please, no) or hastily swept up so they can’t be thrown away like Husband is often threatening (are you kidding? Those things are expensive!) to do. The point is that there is opportunity for the room not to look like it does.

In the past, I have gone up there (usually when 4yo was napping) to get my zen and sort through those tiny bastards, while the big boys played or built or at least left each other alone in their fortresses of bold-coloured plastic. It was nice. Then a day or two later, I would go up to tell them something and BAM! the zen is not only gone, but undone, by seeing the floor carpeted in those same tiny bastards. MF!

Now, I just try not to go up there. I have decided to let them duke it out until someone comes downstairs crying. If they will not keep the room even mildly respectable, I will refrain from intervening, except to yell unhelpful phrases up the stairs, along the lines of “share the bloody lego!” or “go to bed!”. I would go to bed, if I could, rather than deal with the dreaded lego room. Yes, great, come and show me what you made, then take it back and fight about it where I cannot hear about it. And bring me some earplugs while you’re at it.