Something fun going on at our house is that my husband is building my kids a tree house. The "Addition," as we affectionately refer to it, is very cool. There isn't anyone I know who didn't grow up wanting our own clubhouse - my husband and I included. We figured we live out in suburbia and have a yard for our kids. I commute for a reason. Why not make it a place where not only they want to be, but where their friends want to be.
We put the monster structure in a dead corner of the yard and two pine trees shade it from the blazing sun. So far there is a deck and the house has a roof and some walls. If the walls never went up my kids would still be loving it. My son has taken to jumping off the 4 foot high structure, while my daughter has taken to laying under the trees writing songs. I love watching them play outside. There is sharing and laughter and patience when the two of them can find a common goal.
Lately, they have refused to like each other. There is a lot of tattling and crying and don't even get me started on the sassy mouths I never thought would be on my kids. We're working fiercely on the latter, but it's the meanness that is really hard for me to see. He yearns for her acceptance and she for the "mama hen" role. You'd think that these two personalities would compliment each other, but they just don't. I remember when they were both little and all my daughter wanted to do was love and hold her little baby brother. I remind them of this frequently in hopes that some distant recollection of this will veer them onto a path of hugs and love. I can hope, right?
I hope this tree house provides hours of enjoyment and avenues for peace. I am looking forward to my kids growing up someday, but a greater part of me hopes that they stay small, forever playing in the little house in the backyard.