The eight-year-old has been carrying around everywhere a Lego mini fig that lost its head. They call it Sir Headless.
I dug out my box of old 80s forest man Lego sets that’s been in the bottom of a closet, waiting for the kids to be of an age where they won’t just instantly destroy and lose them.
The eight-year-old is in heaven.
The forest man Lego sets from the 80s are still just so cool.
The tree hideout that hinges open? SO COOL.
The eight-year-old is dividing up my old Legos into two teams — one for them; one for me. Anything there isn’t two of (the cannon, the wizard, the shark riding a dragon), we play rock-paper-scissors for.
I think this is all building up to an epic battle…
Sir Headless is leading the eight-year-old’s team.
And since I’m only half paying attention, their team has been slaughtering mine.
That feeling when you’re torn between lying down for a few minutes because parenting is exhausting and just trying to power on because the kid is adorable and you want to be a fun parent…
Aha, the real trick is convincing the kid that you’re somehow still playing Legos with them, even though you’ve moved over to the couch to lie down…