The Cubby House Expedition

In the lead-up to Christmas, everything feels urgent.

Lists get longer. Time gets shorter. The noise ramps up.

We’re all mentally in January, emotionally in survival mode, and physically present but not really here.

So when the three of us set off across the lawn—hand in hand, under the tall trees, toward the cubby house—it felt oddly important. Like an expedition. Like somewhere worth going.

Nathaniel came prepared. Of course.

He packed his Leatherman, because adventures require tools, and carried himself with the calm focus of someone who takes backyard missions very seriously.

Westley was equally prepared in his own way, clutching his favourite toy car like a treasure. No bag. No supplies. Just absolute faith that the day would handle whatever what came.

The moment we stepped under the trees, the light shifted.

The noise softened. December loosened its grip.

Nathaniel found sticks immediately and began whittling with care.

First arrows. I allowed that.

Then a spear. Still acceptable.

But when he announced he was moving on to katana, I had to step in.

There is, it turns out, a very specific parenting line between “creative outdoor play” and “weapons-grade swordsmanship,” and today was the day I found it.

Westley, meanwhile, had discovered the cupboards inside the cubby house.

To him, these were not just cupboards. They were portals.

He instantly removed the tiny toy sink and jettisoned it through the window (who put that there! he says) —now removed so he could climb inside and pop his head up through the opening like a jack-in-the-box, grinning wildly every single time as though this was the peak moment of his entire life.

Toy car still in hand. Obviously.

I sat beneath them, watching.

No instructions.

No productivity.

No future-thinking.

Just the sound of a stick being shaped.

The thud of cupboard doors.

The soft chaos of boys becoming more themselves.

Nathaniel paused often, assessing his work, refining angles, thinking deeply.Westley launched himself headfirst into the structure, trusting the wood, the branches, the cupboards—and life itself—to hold him.

Same trees. Same cubby house.Completely different ways of moving through the world.

And for once, I didn’t rush it.

Didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t redirect.

Because in the rush toward Christmas, this felt like the thing that mattered more than whatever I was meant to be doing.

They won’t remember the cubby house exactly. Or the cupboards. Or the sticks.

But I think they’ll remember how it felt.

To be unhurried.

To be trusted.

To walk under the trees holding hands—with time slowed down just enough to let childhood breathe.

And maybe that’s the quiet reminder this season needs:

The good life is often happening while no one is trying to prove anything.