I can remember being little.  I remember pretending.  I remember forts and trees and roots that made up little rooms of the fairy houses.  Acorns were bowls, leaves were little mats and furniture was made from little twigs and yarn I took from my mom.  It was a magical land.  I couldn't wait to get out there and play. Along with the fairy homes in the nooks and cranny's of the trees I had pet toads that I trained to do tricks (or so I thought).  They lived in a variety of coffee cans and had bridges and ladders to climb.

This was all brought about by my daughter who wanted to make a fairy house out of wood so that her younger brothers wouldn't destroy it. We spent the morning going through scraps of wood until we found the perfect piece leftover from building our hearth.We measured and drew lines.  I cut it out with the circular saw and she cut out the door with the skill saw.  Shes gonna paint it brown but right now it's nestled into the crook of an old maple, just five feet from the national forest. She has a hollowed branch for a tunnel from the house to the "garden".  It's landscaped with moss and fern and gravel boulders.  She plans to sew little bean bags for beds and chairs.  I'm sure there will be fairy's living there in no time.  We might even have to build more when the word gets out.

It's not that often that I feel so in touch with her.  I wish it was more often.  But, I guess I'm doing ok as a mom.