Best-Laid Plans

I appreciate all the creativity, fine motor skills and quiet play that comes from my son spending hours on the floor building with his Legos.

I do not appreciate, however, the tiny square bits and bobs I find in the sofa cushions, at the dinner table and under my feet while walking around at midnight because I need a glass of water.

So a few weeks ago, when my son came to me in a flurry of excitement and asked if he could buy “this really cool new Lego set,” I said, "No."

He ran back to his piggy bank. He returned with a fistful of money: a collection of $10 and $20 bills that his abuelo loves to give him for special occasions, such as Tuesdays or any even-numbered day.

“I’ll pay for it myself,” he declared, with his grandfather's gifts.

“Oh, honey, the money is not why I said 'no,'” I peered over his shoulder at the collection of toys in the corner of the living room. “There is no room for a new Lego set. Look for yourself.”

He looked behind him. Truth be told, things looked pretty good. There were 12 bins to contain  his toys, a storage area underneath the television set to hold the already-built Lego projects and a set of plastic storage drawers to hold the remaining Legos and instructions that would no longer fit in the bins. His toy corner was streamlined and manageable.

And I had every intention of keeping it that way.

Justin was not fazed in the least. “Mom,” he said in his politician voice, the one he uses when he thinks I am being completely unreasonable but he knows that he has to be cool so he can get what he wants out of me. “It’s fine. It looks really neat.”

I stood still and quiet. I was using a negotiation tactic I had learned from watching The Office. I would just refuse to speak. Or was it refuse to speak first? As I tried to remember, Justin went on.

“It’s a tiny Lego set. You won’t even notice it’s here,” He waited. “Well?” He was growing impatient, which, for a 7-year-old takes all of 11 seconds.

“Nope. No more new Legos until you get rid of some of the old toys that you don’t use anymore. All of the bins and drawers are full, so you’ll need to empty one out before you get anything new,” I replied.

“What?!? An entire bin? That will take forever!”

For the sake of perspective, I’d like to point out that the bins in question are about the size of a shoebox.

I was determined to establish a new policy in our home: Justin would have to get rid of some old toys before getting new ones. Period.

I gave Justin an empty shoebox to fill. I wished him luck and reminded him that when he gets his new Lego set is now entirely up to him.

Apparently, my son doesn’t do well with that kind of pressure. Three weeks later, the shoebox is not even half full. It contains a handful of playing cards, some rubber bands, a dried-out set of paints, three marbles and a squishy rubber dinosaur.

On the other hand, Justin has not harassed me about the Lego set for over two weeks. He has even saved a bit more money and now has his sights set on a more expensive Lego set for himself.

“I know, I know,” he tells me, “when the shoebox is full.”

I poured myself a glass of wine last night and congratulated myself on how brilliant  I was in favor of instituting a "toy in, toy out" policy in our home. My son was learning about delayed gratification, personal responsibility and how to keep “stuff” under control.

Now I realize that I may have celebrated too early. Today he came home from his Dad’s carrying a Lego package the size of three shoeboxes.

“Mom, Mom!" He ran through the front door, panting with excitement. "Look what abuelo got for me!”