BRICK BY BRICK: HOLDING ONTO WHAT MATTERS

When I was a kid, I could lose entire days to Lego.

I remember one winter break where I built an entire city — roads, houses, fire stations — that took over our living room. My parents must have hated stepping around it, but I wouldn’t trade those days for anything. There was something pure about it. Hours would disappear, and I’d still want to keep building.

As a dad, I’ve rediscovered Lego — and with it, the rare calm that comes from screen-free play.

Now, decades later, I’m back on the floor surrounded by bricks — this time with my son.

When Zeke turned three, we started building together. At first, I was the one doing most of the work. He’d hand me pieces, ask what went where, and cheer when we’d finish a fire truck or a spaceship. I remember the first firehouse we built — bright red walls, stickers slightly crooked, him beaming with pride.

Now, he doesn’t need my help anymore. He’ll sit for an hour, quietly building, head down, tongue sticking out in concentration. I’ll glance over and realize: he’s doing it all on his own. That makes me proud. And it stings a little too.

Somewhere along the way, I started buying sets for myself. It began as an excuse — something to “build alongside him.” But it’s become one of my favorite screen-free parenting rituals. My most recent build is a Lego vending machine that spits out a little egg with a Minifig inside. Zeke loves it. He’ll come into my room, turn the handle, and light up when the egg drops.

There’s something grounding about it. The click of the bricks, the focus it demands, the way time slows down when your hands are busy. It’s the opposite of a screen. No pings. No tabs. Just pieces fitting together, one by one.

And maybe that’s why I’ve been dragging my feet on Minecraft.

He’s asked me about it — more than once. And every time, we kick the can down the road. “Maybe when you’re a little older,” I say. Because I know what it means. Once he starts building digital worlds, the plastic ones will start to fade. He’ll trade piles of bricks for pixels. Creativity for convenience. Us for solo play.

I don’t want to stop him from growing up. I just want to hold onto this version of us for a little longer — the one where he still asks me to find a missing piece, where we still sit on the floor, side by side, surrounded by bricks and imagination.

One day, the Lego city will get packed away.
The vending machine might collect dust.
And maybe that’s how it’s supposed to go.

But for now, we’re still building. Together.