I told them that when I was little I had a clubhouse tucked under the basement stairs. Not fancy, just a secret place with a miniature door and a mysterious wooden box that held classified codes and pencil nubs. I have been a great many things, but when I was a secret agent, I was exceptional at it.
But there is this part of me that is still so secret, and the other part is nothing like that.
One long summer, when the girls were crawling and falling, my SuperheroMan jackhammered our basement floor and hauled the concrete away in rusty metal pails. With his dad. And that winter we built a clubhouse tucked under the basement stairs.
Shingled on the outside with a mail slot, outdoor light and window box, it now houses baskets of delicious wooden food, a tea set, guest books, date stamps, homemade wooden chalkboard postcards, pretend money, aprons and chefs’ hats, a desk call bell, and a few lonely spiders.