Last Friday my Lego Obsession was able to move to a new level. After a week of hoping their buyer would back out, my wish was granted and I had the wonderful opportunity to buy a large tote of used Lego for just $50. This wasn’t just random bricks either. From what they said and from what I can so far see, they are mostly complete sets. All have vehicles, something Dear Son will absolutely love, and most are either Fire Truck or Police Car related. Can you say: a little boy’s dream?

The majority of my great bounty matches these booklets.


After two evenings of sorting out the larger chunks of pieces I was left mostly with loose bricks at the bottom of the bin. It took me 3 1/2 hours to sort them last night.
My poor back. I need a better way of doing this. I enjoy sorting, but not the accompanying back pain. I have mild S-shaped scoliosis and so lots of bending and I don’t get along.


I need about 50 more containers


There is still so much more to do. It feels like I’m basically working on thirty or so puzzles at the same time. All the pieces are mixed together and dome of them don’t have boxes to go off of. A few pieces are broken and others are certain to be missing.

Am I up for the challenge? You know it.


I just have to keep DS out of my closet where they are hidden and continue to spell out the word whenever I need to mention them.

Chickety Chick

This is a story about why.

At the dentist today, Dear Son went in alone while I was in the waiting room with the baby. Hesitant to go back with the hygienist alone, she got his attention by mentioning the one thing he had been talking about all week.

The Dentist Treasure Chest.

You probably know of them. Every dentist I went to as a child had one. A box full of cruddy toys ordered from Oriental Trading by the gross. This kid, despite not even being quite five, can still remember not only the cheapo car he picked out from it last year, but the one he chose the year before. His long term memory, when related to things he cares about, can be a little scary.

What he brought out was not expected. Instead of a cheap, plastic toy car that I would have to piece back together a handful of times after it broke came a cheap, rubbery, squishy, magenta chick.


This stupid pink chicken became his best friend. For a brief day, these two did everything together. DS went on and on about how lucky he was to get Chickety Chick. How wonderful it was that got the last one out of the treasure chest. They played on the swing together. Went down the slide together. Bounced together on the kitchen floor as I tried to unload the dishwasher. Chickety Chick was his best friend.

And then, something tragic happened.

Chickety Chick was not only rubbery and squishy, but wonderfully fun to squeeze too hard and make his head bubble up.


This was part of the wonderful appeal of his new pet.

In the middle of a family game of Cars 3 themed Monopoly Junior, Chickety Chick popped.

You would have thought someone died. DS fell apart, sobbing with all his might for the next half hour until I managed to tuck him into bed. I promised to try to fix him. That I’d make the attempt even though I doubted I could do so. Still, he sobbed on. “I’ve never been this sad before,” weeped the melodramatic child. “I hope I don’t cry all night!’


I set to work. I tried everything I could think of. I even found the original hole, no easy task considering there was no other way to get air or water in. After cutting a hole in the bottom and blowing air back into the little beast, I attempted to cauterize the material, ending in utter failure.  With nothing to show for it, his perfect little spikes are melted in several locations.

I checked Oriental Trading. They didn’t have it. Then, a google image search for “Magenta chick squeeze toy.”

Like magic, a photo of Chickety Chick’s brother was there. Amazon. Amazon carried it. … well, twelve randomly sorted chickens for $12.

I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Even if I buy the set… Even if they listen to my request for only pink ones… he’s just going to break them. One by one, the clones will fall, and then what will we have? Nothing.

Even so, as I have written this post I have gone back multiple times in “one more attempt” at cauterization.


Well, for one I don’t like seeing my child sob over the loss of his best friend.

Beyond that, though… I remember being a child.

I remember being ten years old with a ridiculous toy of my own. His name was Sparkly. A ladybug-shaped bean-filled toy about 2 1/2 inches wide. I was a fifth grader, just moved across the country for the 2nd time in my elementary school years, back to the same school I had started at. I was shy. Unable to start conversations with anyone. Hurt that none of the few girls I remembered from my 1st Grade Brownie’s Troop recognized me. I had no friends. But I had that stupid toy bug that I tied a piece of string to and would “walk” around the house. And when it went missing, I had lost my best friend.

Lior’s Lego Problem

I have a clear memory of my brother’s room, playing on the floor near his tall, brown dresser that we sometimes used as a ladder when we were really young. He had a red box filled with mostly-random Lego pieces mixed with what must have been part of a castle set.

Not his case in the photo, but it looked just like this.
 After some research, I’m nearly certain the castle pieces came from 6062 but I could be wrong.
Now I want it just for nostalgia’s sake. Too bad he lost them. And it costs upwards of $100 on eBay.

Despite the castle theme, he took to building deadly space ships, firing blasts at each other before shattering on the ground in perfect destruction. Being the peacemaker I was, I used this mismatched bricks to create flying hospitals for the injured in his war. Considering the castle bricks used, they looked pretty silly.

The love for Lego continued as I aged. When I was 17, I bought my very own at Orlando’s Downtown Disney, filling a tiny bucket with fun shapes and colors I rarely saw just for the sake of having them.

Lior's Lego Problem

For the most part, that was that. An admiration for the beautiful sets and the creative things that could be done with them.

And then I had a son.

Dear Son turned four last September, propelling him into the safe zone marked clearly on all boxes of Classic Lego. Ages 4-99. Close to $100 was dropped on various sets for his birthday, most of which had in some way to do with vehicles due to his deep obsession with cars. Then Santa brought more. Birthday and Christmas money bought more. Potty training prizes. You-stayed-in-your-room-at-night-for-a-week prizes. Valentine’s Day. Easter. Most of these were fairly small, $10 or less sets but they add up.

I try pointlessly to organize them. Again and again I’ve sorted them into nice little containers, making it easy for him to find the parts he needs. But he’ll spill them on the floor as he crosses at night to “go to the bathroom” for the 20th time that night. He’ll dump them on his Lego table all at once to create a “garbage dump” for absolutely no reason. Take them out one by one and never ever return them to the proper spot.


And I keep putting them back.

What’s more, I enjoy it.

Why is sorting Lego so relaxing? Seriously, I don’t even really want to play with them. I just want “him” to have them and for them to all be in their proper place.

I have a secret Pinterest board for Lego sets that I want. The sort that I will never have, considering that they tend to cost in the $300 range.

I’ve scrolled through that darn Wish app, looking at knock-off bricks from China.

I’m on the mailing list for Booster Bricks.

I’m watching several sets on eBay that I’ll never actually bid on.

Why? Why?

None of this makes me happy. Why do I bother window shopping things I can’t afford? What use do I have for more disorganized colored plastic to step on in the middle of the night in my life?


But I want more.

I have a problem. A Lego problem.