I have become the Lego-Nazi overlord. How did this happen? O yeah. In my attempt to control what I have, at various times, perceived to be the Lego takeover of every hard, flat, potential working-space in my home I have enforced a strict timeline concerning use of the kitchen bar for Lego projects (which currently includes a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle transmogrification set, purchased with rolls of quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies—O, so Many pennies—that G and I spent Saturday afternoon pilfering from John’s change bowl, counting and recounting, and packing into several dozen paper tubes).
But the kid is six. And while he has this rather grating habit of shrieking, grunting, and stomping at the ground instead of coming to find me and using discernible words to tell me he needs help, the kid is six. And Lego sets can be tricky to get right, especially when they try to do too much, like transmogrify a skinny guy in a white undershirt into, um, this:
Seriously (as J likes to say), how can I compete? The Lego takeover shall carry on, even as I surreptitiously if accidentally, of course, vacuum up the odd hand, lightsaber hilt, or chewed up pair of Lego handcuffs.