I have this nifty magnet on my fridge. It has a tiny blue light that flashes when the cartridge in water filter in the garage needs to be changed. This incredibly cool piece of technology came my way last summer, when the bottom rusted out of the water heater and flooded the garage, the softener gasped it’s last breath and the house filter expired – all in the same week. The new system we purchased and installed had all these bells and whistles that weren’t available when we built our house seventeen years ago.

The reason the little blue light is so cool is that I no longer have to go out into the garage, move the bicycles, skateboards and other kid paraphernalia, climb over the little bench that my husband built when he was a kid and now keeps for sentimentality and then try to peek behind the softener while aiming a flashlight in the general direction of the filter casing to see if it needs changed. The blue light lets me know that it’s time. Being the reasonably intelligent person that I am, I really don’t think there is some sort of psychic connection between the dirty filter and the flashing blue light on my fridge; I understand that it is simply a timer and the little blue light is the alarm. Wouldn’t it be neat, though if there were some kind of connection?

Better still, wouldn’t it be amazing if I had a little blue light, say, on my forehead that was connected to my soul? It could blink at me when I need my spiritual filter changed. It could remind me when I need confession, when I need to pray for myself as well as others, when I need to stop my day to day litany of “do this! do that!” and simply let God be. Best yet, this little light would save me the anguish of having to climb over and around the garage-like clutter of my sinful behavior, and let me get right to the point of changing my spiritual filter and recharging my soul.

Of course, a flashing blue light embedded in my forehead would be an odd fashion statement.

Legos are such a great joy to have around. HA! Not when you step on one of those sharp little plastic cubes in the middle of the night as you stumble your way barefoot across your sons’ bedroom floor.

I love legos. Really I do. They allow creativity to run amok, guided only by the twisted imaginations of little boys. They can be anything, transforming into submarines, spaceships and magical abodes for small creatures. They can occupy small children for hours on end. They provide an excellent cure for “I’m Bored!”.

Legos also clog up the intake tube in the vacuum cleaner. There are many very small, very pointy parts that get lost oh so easily. They are the root cause of almost every arguement between siblings.

“That’s my special piece. You know, the one that goes to Anakin’s speeder”
“No, it’s not”
“Yes it IS! It’s MINE”
“NO! That piece goes to the Bionicle Crash Thingy. It’s NOT YOURS!”
“YES IT IS!”
“NO IT’S NOT!”
At this point the conversation degrades into caveman like grunts and groans, punctuated with a few shoves and a great deal of scuffling on the family room floor.

“MOM!!!!!!!!….”

You get the picture.

At our house, the Lego Bucket occasionally goes on hiatus. I gather up every lego piece I can find scattered about the house. I disassemble every creation, carefully keeping each Star Wars model in it’s separate zip lock bag. I dig every little block out of the vacuum cleaner. Then I dump eveything into the gigantor Lego bucket and hide it in the attic. For a month.

Then I enjoy the peace for as long as it lasts.