Lego in My Pocket

Peter is seven. Peter loves legos.

Many boys and girls do, and many of his friends have more legos than Peter does, but Peter loves them so very much and he is so very good at building with them.  He can build a new lego model-- the big sets that cost over $40 with hundreds of pieces-- in an hour.  He knows all the major lego players-- Star Wars, Chima, Ninjago, Marvel, Lego Movie, Ninja Turtles-- and the less expensive ones too like Mixels, and City, and Creator (the ones we can sometimes buy on occasions other than birthdays and Christmas).  He follows the instructions carefully the first time through, and then he's set.  He's ready to build his own thing, and make it cooler, or fiercer and always more amazing than the original.  He takes legos in the car and in his bed and to church.  He does not take them to school, because he would lose them, friends would borrow them, or his sweet teacher would confiscate them only to give them back at the end of the year (obviously she's taught second grade for decades).

Peter and I have started getting along very well this past year.  Of course I've loved him unconditionally since the day he was born--the day I became a mother for the first time.  We've gone through all the firsts together, and he has been the cutest baby/toddler/preschooler/kindergartener in America.

 But we haven't always seen everything eye to eye.  He would get frustrated with his two little brothers always tagging along and ruining his stuff-- especially his lego creations.  He would feel life was unfair since he had an hour of homework in addition to a full day of school, and his brothers just got to play all day.  He would get tired, and hungry and frustrated and not be able to tell me what he was feeling.  And I would feel like a bad mom.  Not just bad, I would feel like a terrible mother who didn't know how to help her son be happy and kind and hard-working.

But Peter got older, and I got a little wiser.  I realize now that Peter understands life, even disappointing things, and is often more practical than I, and he usually gets things the first time, if I explain them well.  Then he translates for his younger brothers.  "If we spend our money on these legos now, we won't have enough for the bigger set when they go on clearance-- we have to wait for the red stickers."

Peter understands that life isn't always fair. This past summer we went to the Newport Aquarium in Oregon and after walking around in the sun for a few hours, everyone was excited to get some ice-cream. But Peter, who has deadly nut allergies, couldn't have any since the ice cream scooper explained to us, they couldn't guarantee a clean, nut-free ice cream cone.  So Peter didn't get anything.  We offered him a popsicle, or a fruit bar, or some gum.  But  he was okay.  He walked around, and didn't sulk or cry or complain.  I was so impressed.  An hour or so later, when we left the aquarium his dad took him to a kosher, clean scoop ice-cream shop, and he enjoyed his cone thoroughly.


Now, I'm realizing that Peter understands me pretty well too.  Better than I ever could have imagined.  Bedtime is a rough time for me-- for the whole family, really.  Boys don't want to go to bed, and parents want bedtime to not take four hours!  Drinks of water, and teeth brushings, and jammies can be the straws that break this camel's back after a long day of being a mom.  One particular night, I was exhausted, and emotional and when William and James both decided they were hungry and thirsty and didn't want to go to bed, I lost it a bit.  "Okay! Get yourselves to bed! I'm done!" I said-- not yelled, but said forcefully.  And then I went downstairs and started crying.  Ryan took over and got the little ones to bed, and I sat on the couch downstairs and felt like a failure as a mom, once again.

Peter had been in the office across the hall and had heard everything.  He was working on homework, and he came out quietly, and sat down next to me.  "Am I a bad mother, Peter?" I asked him.

"No.  You're like the best mother in the world."

"You are so sweet, thank you.  But are we doing okay-- as a family?"

"Yes."

"If I could do one thing better as a mom-- pretend you are a mom-critic--what would you say I could do better?"

After a long pause, "Well, you could give us more work to do."

I hugged that boy, and told him thank you, and I would give them more work, and I felt so blessed that my 7-year-old boy could be so wise and so kind.

Last week was Peter's first cub scout meeting.  He starts cub scouts for real after he turns 8 in December, but we went to learn about pinewood derbys and Father-Son Campouts and oaths and mottos and such. I am excited and Peter is very excited. I don't want him to grow up too fast, but I'm excited for now and for next year and for the chance I have to see who Peter continues to become.  I am glad that he and I can figure out together how to be the best family we can be, and I am grateful to be his mom and his friend.

So I usually have a lego in my pocket.  I find them all over the house.  And if I see one that's small enough I stick it in my pocket.  And every time I reach in my pocket I feel it, and I feel happy.  I feel happy about when and where and what we are right now, as a family.  Anyone who knows me knows that I would do almost anything to have another baby.  I feel an ache inside when I see pregnant women, or little newborns, and I remember my little ones and I just want to wrap them up again and feed them and smell them and hold them while they sleep.  I love babies, and for the most part I loved being pregnant.  But that is not where we are right now, and that is so very okay.  Where we are is fun, and busy, and messy, and noisy, and covered with legos.

 And that makes me happy.  If you have a little baby (maybe even a girl) and need a family for her, we'd be happy to oblige, and be assured I would try and give her enough work, as all the very best moms do.  But right now I need to go find Peter's soccer cleats and a motorcycle, and a lego dragon wing or two.