Lego has taken over my life

Last night, I dreamt in Lego. That's a first. And no, I didn't need to consult Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams to analyse the meaning behind it. It's simple: my life has been taken over by tiny, multicoloured bricks. And as Freud once famously said "Sometimes a Lego brick, is just a Lego brick."

In my household, Frozen is so 2014, The Lego Movie is my son's new favourite film. Let It Go has, in fact, gone, replaced by the song du jour Everything is Awesome. It's a catchy little tune that one. There's nothing like lying in bed trying to sleep after a long day with "Everything is better when we stick together, side by side, you and I, gonna win forever, let's party forever…" going through your head on an endless loop. Awesome, indeed.

My preschooler, for whom pants wearing is optional, now responds with "Where are my pants?" when I ask him why he's (yet again) not wearing any. Another heartfelt thank you, Lego Movie. He thinks it's hilarious. And it totally was, the first time he did it. And maybe the second. It's quickly becoming less and less so.

Lego: the many ways it has taken over my life.
Lego: the many ways it has taken over my life.  Photo: Getty

Then there's the fact that Lego pieces seem to multiply like wet gremlins. I swear, every time I look at my son's Lego pile, there are more of those things than there were the day before. It may well be that hundreds of small bricks have the tendency to make me somewhat cross-eyed, thereby creating the illusion of more Lego. But I'm still not convinced they don't have special reproductive powers. They're everywhere. In fact, I recently wondered why the vacuum was making strange noises. Turns out, I'd managed to suck up most of a Star Destroyer's worth of tiny grey Lego pieces I clearly thought were dust. That's a lot of Lego, for the uninitiated. A lot.

It is a universal truth of parenting, nay life, that stepping on lego is agonising. What I've since discovered however, is that there are degrees of pain, depending on the size, shape and resting angle of the piece in question. And the specific part of the foot the brick connects with. The ability to identify in an instant, based on the pain alone, that it was a red block, probably four holes, with one of those sticky-out pointy things, and not one of those round, clear, ten-cent piece sized ones has become a strange, yet finely-tuned skill. A talent, if you will.

And it's not just the bricks. The Lego mats themselves are deadly, too. I stood on one recently and skated a good few metres across the living room tiles. After I got over the shock of nearly having broken my neck, even I could admit the ground I was able to cover on that magic Lego carpet ride was quite impressive. What can I say? It's a dangerous game.

Oh and let's not forget that it's an expensive one, too. The cheapest, tiniest Lego kits are worth more than the ballet flats I'm currently wearing. This now necessitates conducting a frisk search before my son walks into preschool of a morning, to ensure he's not smuggling in any Lego contraband to be buried in the sandpit for all time. Well, that and no matter how many pieces he has, my son seems to have a sixth sense for knowing exactly which particular figurine or brick is missing. And not just missing but suddenly pivotal for the construction in progress. I've spent what feels like hours looking for an L-shaped, red piece with "three holes, not four, Mummy" or "the Stormtrooper helmet. No NOT the Clone Trooper helmet." I'm learning. Fast.

The thing is though, despite the fact that I find it everywhere, that I risk life and limb crossing from one side of my little boy's room to the other, that I can no longer vacuum (I know, awful, just awful) and that we'll probably need to take out a second mortgage every time we buy another kit, I have to admit that there's something pretty magical about those tiny bricks. And the world of possibility they represent. Plus, the joy my son gets from those multicoloured landmines is priceless. Which is why these days, more often than not, you'll find me on the floor trying to build a house or a spaceship or a Death Star or whatever else my son happens to be requesting at that particular moment. Because if you can't beat them, join them. Right?

Has Lego taken over your life too?