Love in the Time of Lego

Love in the Time of Lego
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday July 6, 2013

Six is a splendid age for puppy love. At dinner, I asked my small son why 5-year-old Violet had taken his fancy over all the other girls in his class: “Because she’s the only one with a round head.” His older brother stifled a guffaw. But I knew what he meant, having a round head myself, unlike my children’s father, who has an annoyingly square head.

My 6-year-old was smitten. I watched him as he deliberated over whether to write her a love letter using red crayon or orange crayon. He settled on blue. Then he drew an elaborate aeroplane with two wings and two wheels and two little faces peering out from two windows in business class. “To Violet” he wrote carefully and drew a box with a love heart.

“Is she so pretty?” I asked him as we walked to school. He had his letter in hand, ready for hiding in Violet’s bag. “She’s as pretty as Pinocchio!” he declared proudly. I didn’t have the heart to tell him Pinocchio had a really big nose and came with strings attached.  

Violet asked to come to our house to play. My lad waited by the window to see what colour car she had: “White!” he yelled to me, “It’s bright white!”

I made a fuss and baked his favourite brownies. They sat nervously together at the kitchen bench, legs dangling, until he showed her how to swivel on her stool to make it squeak. In return, she demonstrated how she could lick the end of her nose with her tongue. He snorted and blew a cloud of icing sugar off his plate. Encouraged by her giggles, he took off his shoes and skidded across the loungeroom floor in his socks, crashing noisily into the French doors. She looked to me, alarmed. (Violet only has sisters). I gave her a wink and her little baby-face relaxed into a smile. The two of them raced upstairs to play Lego.

My own taste of puppy love was carnal by comparison. In Year 4, I sat side by side with a boy called John. Our teacher, Mrs Gray, barked at us like Cornelia Frances on The Weakest Link. While Mrs Gray’s back was turned, 8-year-old John turned to me and whispered: “Give us a look, then!” Never one to put risk before risqué, I gave him an eyeful of my regulation Bonds cottontails size 6 under the desk. I arrived at school next morning to discover he’d moved his things and was sitting at another desk with the new girl, a mystery brunette.

Puppy love can bite back. Last week, on the walk home from school through the park, my small son burst into tears. “Everyone says I have a girlfriend,” he choked. “The boys say I’m stupid.”

I hugged him and he wiped his runny nose down my sleeve. “Maybe those boys prefer footy,” I said, but his sobs came harder and faster.

At dinner that night I decided a family discussion was in order. I nudged my eldest son: “Your little brother has a problem – what do you think he should do?” “Get over it,” he mumbled. Dissatisfied with his disinterest, I pressed on, elbowing his father to bring to bear his lifetime of wisdom. “Pass the peas, champ,” was all he offered.

Undeterred, I described to my child what jealousy was, and how it turned people into green-eyed monsters and how everyone says mean things when they’re a green-eyed monster. “But you have green eyes all the time, Mum,” he said, looking confused. So I began explaining  about eye-colour and genetics, but then everyone started talking over the top of me about whether Josh Kennedy can kick 60 goals this season.

Later that night, after the children were in bed, my life-long crush took my hand and sat me down on the sofa. “Here comes dessert!” I thought, but all I got was a dressing down: “Back off blossom” he began, “He’s six, for goodness sake – big deal if he cops it for being friends with a girl? It’s a non-issue.”

I felt miffed, then patronised, then guilty. Had I become one of those parents I rail against: the ones who stage manage their offspring? Call them what you want: helicopter parents, hot-house parents, over-parenting parents. Had my solicitude made my son all the more anxious? And was I teaching him to be resilient, to stand up for himself?

Maybe all he needed that Friday afternoon was a pat on the back: “It’ll be all right kiddo – hey! Let’s go to the park.” That’s what his father would have said.

In the car yesterday, on the way to the dentist, I asked after Violet: “Would you like her to come over again honey?” “Sure, Mum” came the reply, “you can make cupcakes with her while I go to Jake’s house and play Spiderman.”