Legos As A Love Language

A personal essay

Legos As A Love Language

“I’ll give you a dollar if you find it.” My seven-year-old, says with urgency. 

We have spent the last 45 minutes bent over a sprawling pile of Legos in our basement and I can barely contain my sighs of exasperation. 

“Mom, it looks like this.” He reminds me, shoving a small irregular piece in front of my face.

“Okay, yes, I’m looking,” I reassure him. “But I can only look for a few more minute before I need to go back upstairs.” 

We are hunting for a single special Lego piece in a pile of dozens of deconstructed Lego builds. 

Three days ago, my middle son announced that he was going to build a Lego vehicle every day until all of his old sets were all built. An ambitious goal considering that between him and my 9-year-old, they have purchased and/or been gifted at least four Lego sets a year for the past five years. 

I have little indents in my knees and palms from accidentally landing on sharp Lego pieces and I feel slightly dizzy like you do when you stare at a magic eye puzzle too long. Still, the critical Lego piece is nowhere to be found.

“But Mom, how will I finish my truck—what if I don’t find it?”

The emotion in his voice tells me this question is about much more than finishing a Lego.

I stay an extra fifteen minutes, mustering the best attitude I can until I can’t put off dinner prep any longer. I crawl toward his end of the Lego pile and smile. “Don’t give up, buddy—you’re making great progress!” 

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My middle son had a five-year stretch as “the baby,” but is very much stuck in the middle of two strong personalities—his, I-have-an-answer-to-just-about-everything, older brother, and his, I-will-get-my-way-or-scream, younger brother.

Most of his ideas have already been attempted and until recently, his Lego creations were never quite as sophisticated as his big brother’s. He is eager to prove his creativity, determination, and strength, though the person he seeks approval from most often—his big brother—is not easily impressed. Meanwhile, my constant praise and encouragement has become like background noise.

As a kid who prefers to play with others, he is often forced to choose between big kid play and toddler play. If he chooses to play with his big brother, he will likely need to surrender to his ideas, while behaving at his upper-most level of maturity. If he chooses to play with his little brother, he gets to be sillier and more imaginative, which he prefers, but is then at the mercy of a two-year-old’s mood.

Emotions escalate quickly around here and sometimes it’s all I can do to keep myself from joining them. 

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“Hey Connor, do you wanna take a walk with me?” I call down the stairs.

I hear an argument intensifying from where I stand in the kitchen and I can tell he is close to losing it. 

“You never let me do my ideas! You always just say, blah, blah, blah, and act like you know everything!” Connor’s voice echoes up the stairwell and I can picture his face turning red, his fists clenched.

I hear my oldest son’s voice getting louder and I know a fight is close if I don’t intervene. 

I jog down the stairs, trying to prepare myself as I go. Both boys are shouting and hurling insults at each other as fast as they can.

I am tired of this routine—tired of listening, trying to de-escalate, trying to calmly mediate conflict. They aren’t trying to hurt the other, at least not at first, but they hurt each other just the same. 

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Two days later, I am bent over the Lego pile with Connor again. I set a timer beforehand so I am not the one to say, time’s up.

We don’t talk much. He has the instruction booklet open to the latest truck he is working on and every page or so, he shows me a new brick to search for. 

I study his face almost as much as I study the pile of colorful bricks. It is rare that we get one-on-one time together and my heart aches to feel close to him the way I did when he was younger. He used to let me pull him in for a hug whenever I felt like it, but nowadays I am lucky to get a side hug in the morning or a little time shoulder-to-shoulder while I read him a bedtime story. I have to fight the urge to believe his rejection of my hugs is a rejection of my love for him and understand that instead, he wants me to wrestle through something with him. He wants to know that I care about what he cares about and that no matter how busy I am, I will still make time for his ideas.

We hear the beep of the timer and slowly stretch our bodies upright, assessing the progress of the build.

He walks around to my side of the pile and wraps his arms around my shoulders.

“Thanks for building with me, Mom.”  He says with a wide smile.

But what I hear is, I love you, Mom.