My littlest guy woke up at the crack of dawn this morning, ran down the stairs and threw open the front door. Several days ago, he dumped the contents of his money jar on the table and asked me if I could help him go online and order a new Lego set that he has been saving for and seriously, desperately wants. He hasn’t stopped checking the front door for packages since then.
I knew immediately what the next week of my life would be like. But, I also knew all of the jobs that my boy had been working hard at in order to earn the money for this toy. Aggggh. I kind of had no choice.
Having learned from a previous incident, involving an unexpected birthday gift card, some other desperately desired Lego set and an unprepared Momma he now fully comprehends that hitting the magic *confirm order* button, sadly does NOT mean that the toy will instantly appear out of thin air onto the table in front of your eyes. Nor will you find it after your tiny legs go running upstairs to check the toy bins to see if it could have possibly magically ended up there. That was a wildly emotional day, which we never want to repeat again. Ever.
This time, he was prepared for the idea of waiting some days for ‘shipping’ but for the love of Pete, the concept of time passing is SOOOO warped when you are super anxiously waiting (and x1000 when you are only 7) that I am now, sitting here willing to give all of my worldly possessions and possibly my own life blood if only the ever lovin’ Fed Ex man would show up post haste with that ever lovin’ Lego box. Holy Guacamole I am dying over here. That small child who is already a super good question asker (and if you can’t hear the sarcasm in those words, y’all need an ear check appointment) has asked me ‘how long until my toy gets here’? (or some variation of that question) at the very least, 6 bazillion times.
We started with ‘how long until my toy gets here’ which I adeptly stopped by drawing a little picture with boxes for each day and showed him how to mark the days off. (This momma ain’t no amateur) By that night he started randomly marking boxes off saying it ‘felt like 3 whole days had passed, but he wasn’t sure’. So I made a new little picture that I tacked high on the wall and made a rule that we would mark it TOGETHER after breakfast every morning. That day I was asked if we could have breakfast again about 700 times. As I would smack down one way of asking about the dang toy, he’d come up with new wording. How many days left, how long in a day, do sleeping hours count, why can’t you text the fed ex driver and ask him to really hurry up please?
We have finally arrived at the Blessed Delivery Day. Thank you Lord in Heaven. Unfortunately, past experience with this stuff is telling me what is coming. Besides every second that passes today, seemingly taking an hour until that truck pulls up, I’m pretty darn sure that the glorious silence of ‘busy playing with the new toy’ will last approximately 3 ½ minutes….4 ½ if you include unboxing and fussing with siblings on who gets to check it out first, after precious new toy owner is done building it. Which, due to the effects of the week-long hell of constant inquiries I’ve put up with, will time-warp-translate into only like 1.5 seconds of relative peace.
Hey toy makers (I’m talkin’ to you LEGO!), internet selling giants (you know who you are Amazon) and all of the delivery people (FedEx, UPS)…. If you guys are all in some sort of cahoots aiming for muddling the minds of the adults as we drown in tiny plastic pieces and cardboard boxes, you have won already, OK? Just stop it now. I’m begging for your mercy.