The Day A Lego Made Me Cry

We recently had a family road trip to Edinburgh, which involved Edinbrick; a pretty cool Lego model show, some time at the zoo, and lots of laughs.

The laughs, Lego, and family time was much needed. Some other stuff was not.

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This post is not sponsored by LEGO or Edinbrick. We just like them.

Last Friday, we loaded our car toons, and drove down to the flat we spent last Christmas in, and a winter break before that.

See, when I find wheelchair accessible accommodation, I rebook it and become a repeat customer. Because I know what I’m getting.

I’m getting through the door and into the bathroom. Around the bed. Into the fridge.

Going back to the same place three times isn’t excessive.

I’ve been going to back and forth to one place in particular for 21 years. Even that isn’t excessive. It’s accessible. It’s peace of mind.

I like going somewhere I know will work, where I don’t have to explain, where I can just be.

And so, when the family and I pulled up to the same place for the third time, the first thing we did was order Chinese food. We felt thoroughly at home.

And Edinburgh is home, I’ve discovered. Or the closest thing I’ve felt to home since the 80s versions of my Grandparents houses, or waiting for my Dad to pick me up on the weekends, with bagpipes blasting on his car speakers.

Lego Ghostbusters are here.

I’ve moved a lot since then. My roots have always been people, and the memory of places.

Edinburgh to me was always a cool but hilly city, and I always thought I’d end up there. It helps that my husband is actually from there, we got married there, I worked there, and our child was born there. All that was the most at home I’d ever felt in my adult life.

So, the plan is to move back.

If you’ve been keeping up with our hunt for another accessible house, you’re kind of doing better than me. Because I’ve lost track of the inaccessible places we’ve seen.

But the point last weekend was just to have fun. I left my listings notebook behind.

I wasn’t going to stress about steps, or bathrooms, or if agents know what they mean when they say ‘the downstairs is accessible.’

They don’t, and it isn’t, but we keep going, because maybe this time it is. (I’m already lucky, but here’s a musical interlude if you want it.)

Truthfully, I’ve found looking for another house to be increasingly depressing, compounded by the depression that comes with not looking. My anxiety has a new friend.

Which is why I welcome family road trips to the city, even to see Lego not already in my living room.

And see Lego we did. I found out about Edinbrick by accident, but it was a happy find.

Isla went around the exhibits not knowing where to look first. And I was amazed by the pure art of the pieces.

And then, Isla shouts, ‘One for you, Mum!’ And there’s a wheelchair-user Lego mini figure. (Full sets are here and here.)

I’m actually crying, because we’re counted in Legotown.

And I hoped Isla will grow up in a world where disabled people aren’t surprised to see ourselves represented as one among the rest.

Just going about our lives. Going down the street into homes that fit us, not ones we have to wedge through.

And when we leave, I’m a little sad to break the spell.

Someone at the venue asked what I thought of the accessibility.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Crowded and claustrophobic like everyone else.’

That got a laugh.

But the thing is, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I appreciated the level access day.

The next day we went to the zoo.

A flying non-penguin bird crapped on me. Twice. The days can’t all be winners. I did hear somewhere that it’s good luck when a bird craps on you, but maybe that’s something we tell ourselves when it happens.

And the luck might be useful for the whole finding a house thing. And other things.

Penguin Lego is here.

After the zoo, we walked home in the rain, and it was as quaint as it sounds.

We did see a house on our last day. And the agent did say ‘the downstairs is accessible.’

We hoped.

But I did have to wedge myself through the door. And I couldn’t wedge myself in the bathroom.

I couldn’t make that place work.

And then, I cried in public. Which kinda never happens. It was the trying to fit in, it was the not quite right, it was the wanting it to work. Finally.

And it was Isla saying ‘it’s not your fault, Mummy.’

It isn’t, but it’s frustrating.

(PS. Dear able-bodied people, don’t tell a disabled person it must be so frustrating. When it is frustrating, we know it is. We are just trying to eat lunch, or buy a coffee, or go to the movies. Or go home.)

And after the house viewing I got angry at myself that I cried at a Lego, that it meant so much to have a toy counterpart, when some real places are still off-limits.

What year is it, again?

That day, I made myself feel better by making my husband buy himself brightly coloured shirt. Somewhat for my own amusement.

And Isla wished on a flower that we find an ‘accessible house next to the zoo.’

Working on it.