Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Legos

My dad is not a sensitive kind of guy. He’s a man’s man. He likes hunting, welding, building things.
The hobbies section of his Facebook profile says “pouring concrete.” If it’s not so spicy he cries?  He will not eat it.

Sentimental moments, being few and far between, stick with me.  There are three that are especially prominent in my mind:
1) When I got my own apartment
2) When we went out to dinner at a nice Italian restaurant, just the two of us, and he bought me a rose
3) When he tiptoed into my childhood bedroom one night, leaned over to kiss my cheek, and then stomped on the pile of Legos I had hidden by my bed instead of putting away like I’d been told to. He shouted obscenities near my head and I unknowingly became an incredibly awkward adult.

I randomly burst into loud and obnoxious laughter at the thought of that moment like three times a year, usually in very inopportune moments.

Last night, it finally happened.

I stepped on a Lego. A Duplo, but still painful.



I had one of those life-flashing-before-my-eyes moments and I saw my poor dad, stomping on Legos in the dark of the night. I saw him in that moment. I saw him sick and stumbling through the dark for Pepto Bismol or NyQuil and stomping on Legos. I saw him exhausted after a long day and stomping on a Lego. I saw him stressed out and frustrated and at the end of his rope and stomping on a Lego. I heard his voice in my head telling me that if he stepped on one of my Legos one more time he was going to throw every last one of them in the dumpster. (He probably did, actually. Legos have a nasty little habit of materializing out of thin air)

Then all of my childhood and my adulthood so far flashed before my eyes. I moved into the future. I pictured myself in those same moments.


Legos are the worst. The very worst.

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