If you’ve felt the blinding, white-hot rage of stepping on a LEGO in the dark before, then you are definitely a parent. But it’s not just anger in the excruciating LEGO aftermath. LEGO pain will send you into a tailspin of complex emotions. I’m here to guide you through the process.
If you haven’t stepped on a LEGO with a bare foot, with your guard down, on your way to bed at 11 p.m., then you have no idea what pain really is. You may have given birth or watched your partner give birth. It looked pretty gory and probably freaked you out. But the worst was yet to come.
Your little bundle of joy would soon grow up and ask you to purchase him LEGOs. These LEGOs may provide hours of enjoyment, but they will also be chucked at you from the dinner table. They will be strewn about, left in the car and jammed into couch cushions. They will be planted like secret landmines throughout the carpet in a dark room, only to be detonated as they pierce your tender foot.
Stepping on a LEGO is guaranteed to bring out the worst in you.
It can’t be that bad. It’s so small, and my foot is so big.
It is that bad. Shit’s about to get real.
Your heart and your soul and your foot will throb as the crippling LEGO pain shoots up your calf.
Who left this LEGO here? Didn’t I tell you to put your toys away?
It was just one LEGO, placed so strategically in a shadow next to the couch. It must have been a trap.
LEGO sadness is much like the sadness you feel when Netflix streaming is temporarily unavailable. First world problems hurt so good.
Why did this have to happen to me, of all people? My kids walked right by it.
I should be able to walk through my own GD living room without impaling my foot on a piece of plastic. I mean, really.
That’s it — I’m throwing all the LEGOs away, and this will never happen again.
I’ll just wear shoes forever, every day of my life, until my kids go to college. Thank you, LEGO, you’ve taught me a valuable lesson.