The other night I helped my daughter to make a cubby from the couch cushions to play in.
Earlier in the night she had got in trouble for putting leaves from the garden into my bed, and then again for messing up my son’s train set. She wasn’t going to get any TV for the next few days, and was grumpy about it.
But later in the evening, things improved. We made a cubby together, helping each other with the walls and a sheet for the roof. A box of Lego and her toy monkey went inside to play with. She wanted to play the game where I pretend to be a monster, growling and stomping around outside the cubby, whilst she is safe inside, which was fun.
After that was done, I went off to do some cleaning. Later she calls out, “Daddy, you need to be the monster again!”.
“Ok, a bit later,” I say.
“I want to play the monster game!”
“I’d rather be friendly. Are you having fun in the cubby?”
“Oh, what’s the long thing you are making with the Lego?”
“What’s that gun for?”
“To shoot monsters,” she says.