“Don’t touch my LEGOs!” I want to tell you my kid yelled that, but it was me. I’m the stingy LEGO builder. I’m not sorry. My husband got me Stranger Things LEGOs for my birthday and after a decade of watching my kids play with toys, I decided it was my turn. My toys. I played with my toys so hard and now I have a LEGO Upside Down and Joyce Byers’ blinking Christmas lights strung about my LEGO house.

I carefully opened each bag of LEGO bricks, sorting through the pieces and reading the directions. I grabbed my cookbook stand from the kitchen to prop up the directions because my fortysomething eyes had a hard time with the glare off the glossy pages. And yet I persisted.

Each new bag contained an exciting surprise, and I squealed when I snapped together mini Joyce and mini Hopper. I found Eleven in—wait for it—bag Eleven. Those LEGO engineers are magicians. I put mini Will and mini Demogorgon in the Upside Down and I gave Mike, Lucas, and Dustin their flashlights and walkie talkies.

I loved the LEGOs like I love the show. Stranger Things is set in my 1980s childhood, a time when we jumped on dirt bikes and headed into the neighborhood with friends. We built forts and roamed the woods and called each other on our corded phones. Unlike the kids from Stranger Things, I wasn’t allowed to play Dungeons and Dragons because my parents’ Christian magazine told them it was demonic. Nobody tell the magazine people that I’m playing with a Demogorgon minifigure, mkay?

Stranger Things makes me feel good because it takes me back to a time when my whole job was playing. I mean, that, plus long division and diagramming sentences. But mostly playing. My LEGO time connected me back to the feelings of childhood fun and I desperately need that.

I’m a tired, cynical mom rediscovering how to play. It’s been a journey over the last couple of years. For so long I focused on teaching the kids how to play. How to treat their friends. How to cultivate their imagination. How to shake hands and say, “Good game,” after a round of Rummikub. How to freaking clean up after themselves, because no one wants to step on a LEGO, a fate worse than death.

But now my kids are old, the lessons have changed, and if I’m to survive the Teenage Wasteland, I have to play. Play with my friends, play with my LEGOs, read fun books. I have regular movie dates with my friends, breakfast dates with my husband, and several times a week I bring a book to the bathtub and read until I’m pruny.

My friend brought her coloring books to girls’ night out at a pub. And one day over a particularly grueling school break, we all got together and colored at someone’s house while the kids … I have no idea. Probably broke stuff and peed up the walls.

Last month I got tickets to Grungefest and Alex, me, and a couple friends headed downtown to headbang to Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Alice in Chains, and Pearl Jam cover bands. It was a bunch of flannel clad GenXers in a mosh pit and I almost got in a fight with a disagreeable lady who tried to shove me out of my spot. But it was deliriously fun. I paid for that fun for three days, with neck pain and sore legs from jumping up and down for two hours straight. Worth it.

I’m relearning how to play, but I really love work. I’ve been embarrassed how much I love work. We’re not supposed to admit we love it. We’re supposed to choose words for the year about peace and rest. I hate peace and rest. I love work and accomplishing a whole list of goals. Check checkity check. I will make lists so hard for days.

So here’s the rub: when I work I feel guilty for not playing and when I play I feel guilty for not working. I ruin work and play by beating myself up about whichever one I’m not doing at the time.

I don’t do this with my kids. With them, I think I get it right. I expect my kids to work hard AND play hard.

I used to stress about Elliott’s screen time when it felt like all he did was play video games. But now we say, “You get video games on the weekend as payment for working hard all week in school and at swim team practice.” He busts his butt all week at his desk and in the pool, and then on the weekend, play play play.

It used to kill me watching Ana binge TV all the dang day, but now, she works hard at her first after school job all week, so on her days off, she lies down and watches her favorite shows and I’m happy to see her relax.

Work hard; play hard.

I need to apply the same rules to myself that I do to my kids. So this year, rather than trying to squelch my inner workaholic, I’m going to let loose my inner playaholic and let the two battle it out. More work, more play. The harder I work, the harder I play. Zero guilt.

And I won’t share my LEGOs, so get your own.

Photo by Ashlee Gadd.