Don’t Forget To Drink Your Ovaltine

The boy became a Brick Master today.

Yeah, I have no idea what it is either, other than the fact that he sent the Lego company a couple of twenty-dollar bills, and now he’s sporting the fancy title of Brick Master, which apparently gets him sky box seating at hockey games, exclusive reservations to swanky Hollywood restaurants, and a gold card to keep in his wallet.

Or, more than likely, he’ll be getting new Lego magazines in the mail and (AND!) a 75-piece Lego set every two months, the likes of which civilians are not allowed to purchase, either online or at Toys R Us.

Civilians. Cannot. Purchase. These. Sets. The boy giggled with the giddiness.

This has brought him no small amount of happiness today, as the boy and Hubs registered him as an official, dues-paying, card-carrying member of the exclusive Lego club this morning, and he waltzed into my bathroom while I was dealing with my hair and said, “So…I’m a Brick Master now, Mom. And it only cost $40.”

We quickly reviewed his vocabulary words this morning, while I continued to deal with my hair. I asked him to give me the definitions of thrifty and extravagant and stingy. He rattled off the definitions, verbatim, because — oh my lands! We have been doing some serious studying! — and then he looked at me with full-on understanding.

$40 in exchange for the title of Brick Master and six 75-piece Lego sets, delivered straight to our door, every two months.

What is the opposite of thrifty?

Hubs, bless his heart, said, “It’ll give him something to look forward to in the mail. Don’t you remember being nine years old and sending eighteen cereal box tops in, so that you could spend six months waiting for a penny-piece-of-plastic toy to arrive at your house?”

It reminded me of A Christmas Story.

“Don’t Forget To Drink Your Ovaltine!” A crummy commercial! Poor Ralphie.

And then I remembered the Calvin and Hobbes series, where poor Calvin checked his mailbox every single day, waiting for the beanie with the propeller on top, which he had diligently sent box tops in for, because he was going to fly himself all over the globe. And, when the beanie with the propeller finally arrived in Calvin’s mailbox, he had to face the cold, hard facts that he would never be able to fly with it.

How can I deprive my child of this glorious disappointment that awaits him every two months in our mailbox, people?

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