Six decades after the age when most people, I became obsessed with Lego. My gateway drug is a set like an ice cream truck. Like many parents, I try something new as a way to connect with one of my children. Unlike many parents, in my case, the child in question is an adult, and I created a set that I designed.
My three sons loved building blocks as children, and my husband would play with them, teaching them the concept of “stable foundations.” But I was alone with the children every day, enduring endless and fun afternoons on the playroom floor. I remember when the kids were 3, 7 and 8, it felt like forever until my husband came home, and I thought: “Lego again? Do we just do this yesterday?â The hours seemed to go on forever, but one day, improbably, I blinked, and he suddenly drove off, got a fake ID and left for college.
Out of the three, my middle son, Aaron, is the enigmatic one, the one who can’t be understood. We moved from Ohio to the Bay Area when Aaron was in fifth grade, and the transition was almost too much for him. He’d always been change-averse; When I rearranged the furniture in our Ohio family room when Aaron was about 6 years old, he was restless, crying for days like King Lear in a storm: “Why all strange?â
The move to California caused him terrible angst; like a sad old turtle retreating into its shell, Aaron lived 24/7 in hoodies with the hoods pulled all the way up for almost a year. I look back at family photos from this time and my heart breaks to see their faces, often filled with consternation instead of joy.
So how does Aaron find his balance?
First, he discovered musical theater. As a teenager, she participated in twelve musicals at our local community theater. He and I see Broadway shows together whenever we can: “Hamilton,” “Anything Goes,” “Dear Evan Hansen.” To see Harun find joy through musical theater is a joy (and a relief).
Second, Aaron continues to build with Lego even when other children his age surpass him. During high school, he found a group of similarly infatuated fans online who shared original designs with each other. By the time he was in high school, he had found a community of “adult Lego fans”, and that was it: He found them.
During college, he began receiving commission work (“Can you design and build life-size Nike Jordan shoes from Lego?” “Why, yes!” “How do you make the Balrog, the demonic monster from ‘The Lord of the Rings.’?” “You really are!”). After graduating, he went on to bigger and better paying commissions, consolidating his burgeoning career.
Aaron’s dream, ever since he developed his fine motor skills, was to work for Lego as a designer. But this also means moving to Denmark. After college, he started learning Danish – the boy got a prize – and, a few years after graduating, he was hired by Lego.
He and his wife now live in Billund, Denmark, 5,368 miles from our home in the Bay Area.
Last fall, through a fluke of timing, Aaron and I got to spend a few special days together in New York, going to Broadway shows and bars in Greenwich Village for drunken singalong shows. But when we went to the Lego store in Rockefeller Center I felt like I got a glimpse into the center of his soul. We saw the sets he designed, and he told us about the other designers as he inspected the sets. This is his place, these are his people, this is his life – or, at least, the basics.
Thinking about it now, I realize the concept of “stable base” that my husband taught me years ago has become a metaphor for Aaron’s life: This world of interlocking bricks is where he feels most calm, happy and competent. They need things to feel the way Lego does.
The hours after school years ago felt monotonous, I like to go back to the time when we all lived under one roof and when I, the mother of the boys, the love of his life, sat. on the floor of the playroom. Not forever, but just for a while, armed with the insight I have now.
Time has gone by so fast. In the meantime, I have a new and deep connection with Aaron, sometimes elusive. When I threw out a bag of small plastic bricks and started sorting through them, only the sound only brought me back, to remember and feel the essence of my son, however far he may be.