There’s something magical about a large cardboard box. Give it to a little boy and his brother, and it instantly becomes a car.
And then give the same little boys some paper, crayons, and tape, and the hallway turns into a road, complete with traffic lights. This very phenomenon happened in our house just a few weeks ago, as you can see here.
As I surveyed the boys’ handiwork, I noticed that other transformations had occurred while I wasn’t looking. The bedrooms and bathroom had become a bank, a restaurant, a hospital, and a police station.
I had to smile at this. It got me thinking, too. It’s not really such a stretch to imagine our house as a bank. After all, it’s a place where money is given and taken (“Honey, I’m short of cash; do you have any?”). It’s a place where little boys eagerly invest stray coins that they find on the floor, depositing them into piggy banks with a satisfying clink.
A restaurant? Well, our house is that, too. It’s not five-star or Zagat rated, but it does offer everything from Mexican to Italian to Indian to good old mac and cheese. It’s easy to get a table there, and the waitress is [usually] friendly. (Alas, the diners don’t leave tips. The nice waitress serves them anyway.)
When required, our house is also a hospital. Stomach flu is treated with Jello and cartoons, earache sufferers are hugged and kept comfortable, and small flesh wounds are bandaged promptly. Somehow, the application of a Band-aid makes everything stop hurting. (And let’s not forget the nurse’s special kiss-it-better remedy.)
Police station? Well, that works, too. In this house, those who scribble graffiti on the walls are apprehended and their crayons confiscated. When two small-boy neighbors can’t settle their own disputes, Officers Mom and Dad are called to the scene. Here, too, lost items of great personal value are reported (and, invariably, found — usually underneath the sofa). Occasionally, too, speeding citations are issued (“No more chasing each other around the house! You’re going to trip over those trains and hurt yourself!”).
See what I mean? It all happens right here in Moyerville (Population: 4).