If I told you I had an ideal childhood, it might be a bit of an exaggeration. Okay, it would be more than a bit of an exaggeration. But this much is true: When I was a kid, my father built a playroom for his five kids. He didn't always pay the rent on time, and he wasn't always sober. Okay, he was rarely sober. But somehow he made that playroom for us. He built us shelves out of plywood, and the books they housed kindled my love of words. He made us wooden blocks out of well-sanded two-by-fours, and we built empires out of them; now my sister Catherine is an architect.
It's not so easy to reconcile the reckless father with the father who built that space. Yet when I think back, I see the magic that room allowed. It allowed me to own and operate the first-ever kid bank, which had a calculator and money I minted myself. It allowed for a world where blankets served as trains and my brother was the conductor who pulled us from station to station. (Without that blanket-train, we would have been electrocuted by the super-electronic train tracks. Just ask my brother.) It allowed for sold-out performances of Sister Sledge covers, coloring, and pillow fights.
It was a space that, now that I reflect on it, took play very seriously. They say that children learn through play. I think my father innately knew this. We were becoming ourselves in that room. We were testing ideas and brawn. We were arguing points and sharing or not sharing the rare and beautiful clear Lego pieces.
I suppose, then, that I built this playroom for my own two children, ages 8 and 10, two years ago as a tip of the hat to self-discovery and as a thank-you to my father, who taught me how critical play is to all good things. In keeping with that notion, I created this space—with the help of my sister and a design firm—to be a blank canvas upon which my kids can create. Rather than just a storehouse for toys, it's an art studio, a study, and a lounge where my sons and I can draw, wrestle, or just be.
