Wayyyy back when I was a kid, Legos were the toy of choice. (Until that fateful Chanukah when we got our Nintendo. Oh man, that was a good Chanukah.)
My brother and I could quietly play Legos for hours. With those little, colorful bricks, I would build a house. Every. Single. Time.
Fast forward two or three decades, and our family has finally graduated from Duplo to Real Legos. (Or as Sigourney calls them, “the wittle, tiny wegos.”)
I am a kid again. I only HAD kids so I could ride carousels, have tea parties, and play with Legos.
Erma creates all kinds of Lego masterpieces. A school. A trampoline. A playground.
“It’s a race track!”
“It’s a space station and an astronaut landed on it, came through the door, and was home.”
“It’s a pen and paper and the blue line is what I’m writing.”
“Mom,” Erma asks, leaning toward me. “What are you building?”
“A house,” I reply.
Some things never change. Erma told me that my house was beautiful, as she put the finishing touches on her space station. I hope she never changes, either.