Santa, we need to have a word. One word in fact: Lego.
What kind of heinous invention is this? Why would you bring so much of this into my children’s lives? Do you hate parents? Do you want to punish us for something we’ve done in a previous life?
Everywhere I turn it’s there. Under my bare feet, in my bed, embedded into carpet, rattling into my hoover, chewed up and pooped out by my dog… you get the picture.
You ‘blessed’ my kids with several sets on Christmas morning and although we spent two bloody days building the things it took less than 30 seconds for them to be dismantled. This was followed by multiple breakdowns because they couldn’t put it back the way it was and their horrible mother threw out the instructions and boxes. There’s no sound more soul-destroying than hearing the contents of the Lego box being tipped out onto the floor; and if I waited until my children actually pick up the damn stuff afterwards I would be 90.
My nails and spirit are broken because of these toys from hell.
If I have to feign interest at another collection of random bricks thrown together which – I’m told – are meant to be a spaceship I’m going to lose it and scream: IT’S SHIT! BUILD SOMETHING I CAN RECOGNISE!!!
I’ve spent the morning looking for one particular teeny tiny green piece which is apparently essential to the existence to the universe. If I don’t find it before school pick up my life won’t be worth living. I’m 90% sure the dog ate it.
If you’re reading this, head my advice: squash your child’s imagination and creativity before it’s too late. Don’t get into bed after a long day and find a small square of plastic lodged into your spine (a present left by my youngest).
I urge you to save yourself and kill their brain cells with television.