My daughter played with LEGOs pretty hardcore, as is obvious by the brutal scars I have on the bottom of my feet from stepping on them (I can’t see worth a shit). She always liked the little mini-figures and the superhero sets.
I was absolutely a LEGO kid, as is likely evident from the scars on the bottoms of my parents’ feet (we had shag carpeting). I was even privileged enough at one point in my young life to even be gifted the LEGO castle, which was one of my fondest dreams (that and the LEGO Death Star, which was unreasonably expensive but terribly cool).
I spent years playing with that castle – making the knights rebuild it brick by brick, lowering the little drawbridge on its tiny strings, imagining attacks by vicious LEGO dragons.
I also built little homes, schools, tree-lined streets formed with the large plastic lane-printed street squares, and I occasionally popped the heads off of my mini-people just to see how far they would fly. I had tiny cars with working wheels, tires with real treads, itty-bitty working steering wheels, and miniature taillights.
I spent countless hours sprawled out on the living room floor on my stomach, clicking little bricks together. Sometimes a friend would come over and we would LEGO it up, but I was perfectly happy just to play by myself in my imaginary plastic world.
I eventually grew out of my yen for the tiny blocks as puberty set in, but I still get a pang when I see LEGOs on the shelves at Target or at a toy store. (And wow, have they gotten pricey.) It takes me back to lying on the green shag carpeting in my shorts and a tank top, putting flags atop my castle and feeling perfectly content with the world.
I miss that.