Last week Mr. Yoy visited Washington, D.C. for work and like any good daddy, returned with presents for the Yoys.
One was a 3D puzzle of the White House and the other was a fake Lego, which I will from now on refer to as Flego, of Air Force One.
The boys' eyes lit up when they saw their gifts. I just saw a giant headache in the making.
On Saturday, while Mr. Yoy was at the office, the boys decided they wanted to put together the Flego plane. I opened the box and the bag and handed the instructions to Big E.
GOOD LUCK, BUDDY.
And with that, I returned to the kitchen to clean up breakfast.
MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM.
CAN YOU HELP ME WITH THIS?
I knew this moment would come. I gulped down some Coke Zero, swept the cobwebs from my brain, and sat down on the floor in the playroom with the Flego instructions.
The Flegos instructions were most likely printed in the same factory as the Ikea instructions.
IS THIS IN SWEDISH? AND IS IT UPSIDE DOWN?
This well-intentioned "present" cost me two hours of my Saturday. I've previously mentioned that I'm horrible at these build projects, and yet they keep showing up at my home.
I had sweat dripping in the cracks behind my knees. My kids were impatiently hovering above me. Every time I attempted to put on one of the 17 stickers it came with, Little E would knock my arm or jump on my back.
Here I am, performing sticker surgery on this thing, and my helper keeps sabotaging me. I'm pretty sure he was doing it on purpose. He could smell the blood in the water.
And here it is. The stickers look busted, but it was finished.
I use the term "was", because by the time I came back from our Saturday night out, the boys had already destroyed the parts not kept together by stickers. It may have been the many spiked Arnold Palmers I drank that evening, but I definitely shed a tear for the remnants of Flego Air Force One I discovered scattered by the back door.
The pilot is still MIA.