For who can resist the power of Legos?

There is a substantial pile of Legos (or, if you prefer, of Lego) on the floor in my living room.

Am I responsible for this? No, dear reader, I am not.

Is my seventeen-year-old brother responsible? No, dear reader; he has not even seen them, for evidently he does not live here nowadays.

Then who? you ask. Why, that would be my mother.

And she wonders where we got it from. At least we left our Legos all over the floor in the basement, which other people were less likely to need.

She acquired said Legos at a garage sale for $15. There was an entire popcorn tin full of them, and evidently she just couldn't resist them. They include lots of little Lego pirates and Lego soldiers, with a few Lego astronauts for good effect. We dumped them out and picked through the pieces this morning, after I got back from my haircut, and she was, oddly, at least as nostalgic about them all as I was.

Danny and I were Lego fiends when we were (not that much) younger. Mostly, he built the planes and spacecraft while I built the houses and cars, not to mention the cable car system I strung up, gashing my left middle finger open with a piece of quilting equipment in the process. We both spent an inordinate amount of time interchanging the torsos, legs, heads, hats, hairpieces, and other bits of Lego equipment to create various characters to people our dramas, thus filling whatever gap might have been left in my life by never owning a single Barbie doll. Most of the Legos were given to Danny, because they were an obvious and easy gift to give a boy, but the original Legos were mine before he was old enough to play with toys that could potentially choke him. According to my own strange firstborn logic, this makes them all mine. ;)

Right now, Danny is assisting his youth group's junior high camp, and before that he was staying over at a friend's house, and before that he was at the Missouri Scholars Academy for three weeks. He should get back here so we can play with Legos.

For who can resist the power of Legos?

There is a substantial pile of Legos (or, if you prefer, of Lego) on the floor in my living room.

Am I responsible for this? No, dear reader, I am not.

Is my seventeen-year-old brother responsible? No, dear reader; he has not even seen them, for evidently he does not live here nowadays.

Then who? you ask. Why, that would be my mother.

And she wonders where we got it from. At least we left our Legos all over the floor in the basement, which other people were less likely to need.

She acquired said Legos at a garage sale for $15. There was an entire popcorn tin full of them, and evidently she just couldn't resist them. They include lots of little Lego pirates and Lego soldiers, with a few Lego astronauts for good effect. We dumped them out and picked through the pieces this morning, after I got back from my haircut, and she was, oddly, at least as nostalgic about them all as I was.

Danny and I were Lego fiends when we were (not that much) younger. Mostly, he built the planes and spacecraft while I built the houses and cars, not to mention the cable car system I strung up, gashing my left middle finger open with a piece of quilting equipment in the process. We both spent an inordinate amount of time interchanging the torsos, legs, heads, hats, hairpieces, and other bits of Lego equipment to create various characters to people our dramas, thus filling whatever gap might have been left in my life by never owning a single Barbie doll. Most of the Legos were given to Danny, because they were an obvious and easy gift to give a boy, but the original Legos were mine before he was old enough to play with toys that could potentially choke him. According to my own strange firstborn logic, this makes them all mine. ;)

Right now, Danny is assisting his youth group's junior high camp, and before that he was staying over at a friend's house, and before that he was at the Missouri Scholars Academy for three weeks. He should get back here so we can play with Legos.