Sometimes the most important thing we build isn’t made of cardboard.
A Big Idea (and a Bigger Mess)
My 5-year-old son was determined to build a fort, though he pronounced it “for-et,” which made it even more endearing. I try hard to encourage his creative play, if it doesn’t involve wrecking things, so I said, “Of course, go ahead!”
He began his mission by gathering the many cardboard boxes we had stacked in our basement waiting to be cleared. Soon, these became a haphazard fortress-in-progress outside our back door. It quickly turned into a cluttered obstacle course we had to navigate. My husband was less than thrilled.
The Deal
The next morning before leaving for work, my husband struck a deal with our fort architect:
If he could move all the basement boxes for disposal and clear a large new box we’d just acquired, he could use that big box as the foundation of his fort.
Simple enough.
So before breakfast, my son excitedly dragged everything out of the biggest box and scattered its contents across the driveway, completely ignoring the deal. Then he bounded in, wide-eyed, asking me to help cut a door into the fort.
One Box, Infinite Overwhelm
I stepped outside and surveyed the scene. None of the other boxes had moved. And now, there was a fresh mess on top of the old one.
When I gently reminded him of the first part of his task, his smile drooped. He looked at the towering stack of boxes and sighed.
“There are so many,” he said. “It will take 100 years to move them all!”
At first, I wanted to say what I usually say: It’s not that many. Or: If you’d started earlier, you’d be almost done by now.
But I caught myself.
Would those words help him—or just shame him?
Choosing Empathy
Instead, I sat down, pulled him into my lap, and gave him a squeeze.
“Sounds like you’re feeling overwhelmed,” I said.
He nodded, eyes watery.
“You know, I feel that way sometimes too. When I have so much to do, I don’t even know where to start.”
“You do?” he asked, brightening.
“Of course,” I smiled. “When that happens, I take a deep breath.”
I took an exaggerated inhale and exhale, which made him giggle. Then I added:
“And I try to do just one thing at a time for half an hour. You’d be surprised how much you can get done that way.”
“Okay!” he said.
Momentum (and Breakfast)
“But first,” I said, “you need breakfast. You’ll have more energy after eating.”
“I’m already strong enough,” he insisted.
“I know,” I smiled. “But strong people get hungry too.”
After breakfast, he set to work. Later, he proudly announced:
“Mom! I stacked some boxes inside others. It made moving them faster!”
“Genius!” I said. “What about the other pile?”
“Huh?!”
A short follow-up pep talk was in order, and before long, he had moved all the boxes.
It didn’t even take 100 years.
Somewhere along the way, the project transformed from a for-et into a clubhouse (don’t ask me how).
The Clubhouse Reveal
Next came door-cutting. He wanted it done immediately. I made him wait until I finished a task of my own.
Then, I carefully helped carve a doorway into the giant box to his exacting specifications.
After lunch, armed with a black Sharpie, he decorated the clubhouse with the enthusiasm that only kids can generate. He led me out for the grand tour:
“See the man on the door? He’s inviting everyone inside.
Here’s a sign that shows who can come in, even old people.
What do these letters spell?” (They were random, adorable runes.)
“There’s a whale… and another whale… and my name.
And these are solar panels to power the clubhouse. Come inside!“
I squeezed through the narrow doorway. He followed.
“Turn on the light, Mom!” he said. “The switch is right behind you.”
Of course it was.
What His Fort Taught Me
Watching my son struggle reminded me how easy it is to feel overwhelmed when faced with a big, messy task.
His honest frustration echoed feelings I often hide behind adult composure.
And instead of rushing to correct him, I chose empathy, and it changed everything.
Helping him break the job into tiny steps, encouraging him to breathe through the hard parts, taught both of us that real progress doesn’t come from powering through: it comes from pausing, noticing, and taking the next small step.
Final Thoughts
I still lose my patience more often than I’d like to admit. But in moments like these, I’m reminded that the real “for-et” we build each day isn’t made of cardboard at all:
it’s built of patience, understanding, and kindness.
And just like my son’s fort, it might not look perfect.
But it stands strong: messy, magical, and full of love.💬 Got your own “clubhouse moment” or parenting win (or fail)? I’d love to hear it in the comments. Don’t forget to share and subscribe if this resonated with you.
Practical Homesteading 