While playing legos on the living room floor with the kids earlier today, my meta-cognitive antenna was up and I observed some disturbing behavior in myself. I don't know what it means, but I'm a little bit ashamed. I think. As the two year old reached for the tricked out off-road vehicle I was constructing, I boxed him out with a bony forearm and said, " No, this is daddy's car."
Wax off. This off course came after I had stashed all the coolest lego parts behind me so I wouldn't have to share the lame boxy stuff and have a sub-par product-- the kids can't maximize the potential of helicopter wings and the eight pronged "long pieces" like I can anyways, right?
This is not the first time such events have taken place. I've made some wicked awesome castles with oversized foam blocks that were worthy of an A&E series, only to be wrecked by little dragons who have no appreciation for architectural mastery. I don't care how old you are or how many degrees you have-- somebody messes up your castle, they're getting . . . boxed out next time.
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