Four walls made of pillows, or cardboard, or plywood, or
snow; a roof of blankets, or branches, or open to the clouds; a secret entrance. There’s something about a fort that
brings joy to every child.
In recent days, I found myself at home on a Friday night
with just the boy. My wife and his older sisters were headed to the local high
school drama clubs’ production of Alice In Wonderland, and my 3 year old was
deemed too young to attend. Thank goodness.
The second the door of the house swung shut – before my wife
even put the van in reverse – he was asking to watch a show.
“Can we watch Chuggington?”
For those without a male toddler at home, Chuggington is a hipper version of Thomas the Tank Engine. Wikipedia describes
it as an animated show that “follows the adventures of six young novice railway
anthropomorphic locomotives.” While it
sounds riveting, I had little interest in spending a boys’ night at home watching
talking trains -- adventurous ones or otherwise.
As I thought what else we could watch, I went to the corner
of our living room where the computer desk settles up against the built-in window
bench to grab a couple of couch blankets from the blanket basket. The boy saw me lift and open a blanket, and an
idea was born.
“Dad, can we make a fort?” He asked.
“Lets.”
Like any dad worth their salt, I’m something of a master
fort builder. I should be, anyway, I’ve
been studying the craft since I was about 8 years old myself. That’s … well, a lot of years, and a lot of
forts. Tree forts, snow forts, indoor blanket
forts. I was so into fort-building when
I was 12 that I wanted to be an architect -- long before George Costanza made wanting
to be an architect cool. It was a dream given up when math got in the way, but I never stopped building.
As a dad, I make mostly temporary indoor forts. But we have a tree fort, of sorts, connected
to the swing set. And each winter I
always make a snow fort. My 5 year old and 7 year old daughters have been known to spend whole days out in the bitter cold, between their walls
of snow, just pretending. We've had our share of frozen tea parties.
This latest fort was far easier than most. All the boy and I had to do was move the basket
from the nook between the window seat and the computer desk, drape a few blankets
over it, put a chair at the entrance with another blanket to connect to the
roof, and, viola, instantly happy child.
|
Two founding members of the Hotdog Club. The club
has since folded, and been put back in the blanket basket. |
There’s just something about a fort that captivates a kid's mind,
lightens their heart and unleashes their imagination. I've seen a fort brighten the darkest room, tame the
scariest woods or bring warmth to the coldest day. As I
sat watching my boy revel in his new abode, I wondered why it’s so? Is it the feeling of ownership? The sense of security? The isolation?
Is it some primal reaction, rooted in our days
as cave dwellers? Do forts make kids and
the rest of us feel safe, away from the danger of the world? Or is it the same instinct that drives us to
seek our own apartment, or own our own home, or build a cottage, or to live in a
cabin in the woods on a pond? Or maybe
there is some deep psychological underpinnings, like a fort subconsciously reminds
the child of the womb, the last dark, warm place where they felt fully
secure. Or maybe a few couch cushions
turned on their side with a blanket over top satisfy just enough of Pavlov’s
hierarchy to bring a kid to a higher level of contentment. It could be none of these things, or all of
these things.
My son played in his corner fort the entire evening. By the next morning, he and two of his
sisters had created a club associated with the collection of chairs and
blankets, while their oldest sister slept in. The three of them made signs that read, “Welcome to the Hotdog Club,” and “Only 7
and Under Allowed.”
They didn’t ask to watch a show once. And when their 10 year old sister awoke and joined the fun, the one sign
mysteriously changed to read, “Only 10 and Under Allowed.” I was waiting for my wife to join the club and put up a sign that read, "No One Over 39 Allowed."
Maybe it’s not as simple as isolation. Maybe forts can also create a way for kids to
work together, to bond with each other, inspiring secret passwords, and handshakes,
and rituals. It seems to hold true for
adults, too. What would the Dead Poets’
Society have been without a cave to call their own, after all? Just a bunch of squirrelly guys at a prep
school, that’s what. They needed a place
to become something. Just like the Hotdog Club, with a slightly
more creative name.
With access to so many kids who had a new fort, I decided to
stop wondering about why forts cause joy in kids and start asking -- for science, of course.
Their answers touched on all the things I guessed at. The 7 year old said she liked “the quiet” most. Not surprising, knowing her. Her 10 year old sister’s reply went a little deeper.
“I kind of feel like I’m separated from the rest of the
world. Almost. And I like it,” she said. She described it as a cave – without prompting
– and a “little secure area.”
When asked why she liked feeling separated from the world,
her response made me think of that cabin in the woods.
“It’s kind of nice to get away from all the more stressful
stuff,” she said. “There’s a lot of
stuff we have to remember. We have to
remember to do our homework, to get dressed, to go to bed. There’s a lot of
stuff. “
Just wait, kid.
|
Crawling through the tunnel entrance
to Snow Fort 2013. Frozen tea anyone? |
One surprising thing about forts they all touched on came to
light most in 5 year old response.
“It’s fun because it’s dark,” she said, clearly referring to
indoor blanket forts, in particular.
Reminded
that darkness often made her scared, she replied, “It’s not dark like at night time. If it’s too dark, you can make it less dark.”
Maybe that's it. Maybe the answer is in the control. Not control of others, but control of their
little world. We often forget that kids
have almost no control over their lives; we decide where they go, what they do,
what they eat, when they sleep – at least when they are supposed to sleep. Maybe when that fort becomes four walls,
that world is suddenly theirs to control, to decide, to pretend, and to do whatever
it is they want.
When I asked my three year old boy why he liked forts, he gave the answer I was looking for all along.
“Because. Forts are
fun,” he said.
There’s no doubt, for a kid, to have a fort is to be a
master of a corner of the world, away from the danger, and the uncertainty, and
the chores. And, there’s also no debating it, forts are
fun.
Now, who wants to build a fort?
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