The kids are on March Break this week, so we went to a local bookstore this morning to try our hand at making Qixels. If you haven’t heard of these cute little pixel bricks that fuse together with the very essence of your soul, then take a minute to Google it. When you’re done, come back to me so I can tell you about the agony that it is to crouch down beside a one and a half foot high table, surrounded by a bunch of frustrated children and their anxious parents, all the while sweating the kind of sweat that screams you are a freaking rock star of a parent just for being down there in the first place.
Being in public while trying to put together a Qixel should be illegal. One needs freedom and privacy to curse, yell and throw things around the room like a wild animal (or like a strung out Mom running on coffee and neglect). These little badasses will break you. They will take years off your life. I stand here before you, a shell of my former self. The kids, on the other hand, seem strangely unaffected by the chaotic suffering I endured. They proudly carried their Qixel swords home, then promptly tossed them into their toy bin, which is where forgotten toys go to die. My soul is in there somewhere; it’s probably where it belongs.