When I was little, one of my friends had a playhouse that her dad had built in the backyard.  It was adorable, just like a little house - not the silly little tikes plastic things they have now - but a real house with shingles and siding and shutters and a real kitchen and a real livingroom with little potbelly stove inside that once in a while her dad would build a real fire inside.  What a fun place to play!  To have your own little place just for you.

We didn't have a play house at our house, but that didn't stop us from playing in much the same way.  We would often take blankets and built "huts" laying them over chairs and tables, and then exploring all the nooks and crannies created underneath.  The area under the folding table might be labled the livingroom while the area created by these three chairs was "the kitchen".  We loved having a place just our size, just for us.  It didn't matter that it wasn't beautiful or that you had to crawl in flat on your belly to get into the bedroom.  It was little and it was ours.

Now my children are hut builders too.  I wish I could shrink myself down and crawl through the tunnels of that magical world of imagination once more without feeling like the intruder that I am.  But I have my own home to take care of, and as I look around, I realize that my Daddy in heaven has given me a real play house just my size with a real kitchen and a real livingroom and even sometimes a real fire in the woodstove!

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