Pieces: that is how I define much of my life as a parent of two young boys.

When I speak, I find my mind firing thoughts fractured from what they would have been if I had not had children. When I pass a mirror, I find my formerly smooth skin covered in wrinkles and stress lines. I find my once unified brunette hair broken by streaks of gray.

That is why I find LEGOs so addictive. I am an admitted control freak and I am able to take solace in the fact that one thing in my life has a clear instruction manual. I find lame excuses to give my kids a set of LEGOs for reward. “Jack, you woke up in such a great mood today, here is a 537 piece X-wing Fighter.” And “Jacob, thank you for eating that mini-carrot; I have a 210 piece racecar for you.”

There is something clearly selfish about handing my 3- and 5-year olds a toy marked “Recommended Age: 8-12.” I am pretty sure I planned it that way when I gave them their first set after I had convinced myself they were old enough to not eat the small pieces. Even though they are brilliant and gifted, they are obviously too young to put all 537 pieces together. The thought gives me a little thrill.

We don’t even have to wait to visit the store for our LEGO fix because I have a stash of them hidden in the garage. Like a junkie. The three of us rush inside with excitement brimming over the table feverishly discovering how many bags hold the contraband inside.

I clear the table of kid cups and crusted Play-Doh and start separating the pieces according to color. As I open the cover page of the instruction book, I am delighted to get the boring part over right away by allowing the kids to assemble the people. This is the ONLY thing they have the ability to build, thank goodness, because it is only a helmet, head, body, and feet. However, the “guys” are the most exciting part for the youngsters so everybody wins. “Now go play with the guys for two hours so I can build this thing.”

I imagine the twisted designer nestled away in the Netherlands laughing as he teases me with the picture of the completed toy. A mild wave of defeat washes over me as I look at the hundreds of pieces in front of me. Initially, it seems to be a task as insurmountable as parenting, yet I dig in because this one comes with an instruction manual.

To fuel my addiction, I am the only one who can put the pieces back together after they are inevitably ripped apart. I must admit, this is the part that has me rethinking the minimum required age for building these things because even though the control freak part of me is satisfied being the only person to fix these crafts, the perfectionist part of me is taking hits with each piece scattered carelessly around the play room for me to find with my bare foot. This loss of control feels as familiar as accepting a pajama top for school picture day and removes some of the high provided by my beloved LEGOs.

However, like all addicts, I ignore the downside and focus on the fact that LEGOs have saved my life as a mom. They give me a fun, interactive, step-by-step way to unleash my inner control freak and dabble in reassembling the pieces of my life without harming my kids, I hope.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: Jennifer O'Shaughnessy

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