The children like to build fortresses in the attic. While this may sound dangerous and suffocating, it should be noted that the attic isn't actually an attic. It's the parents' bedroom. I call it an attic because the stairs leading up to it are steep and frightening and it's unbearably hot up there in the summer and any man over six feet tall--or maybe slightly under six feet tall--would have to watch his head in certain places. I spend as little time as possible up there, and I think this mystique that I've created, which started with me referring to it as "the attic" in the first place, just makes these guys even more eager to get up there and do something. That's where fun Alex, fortress maker extraordinaire, comes into the picture.
When Alex is home the kids beg him to make a fortress in the attic. Their pleas go something to the tune of "Dad, can we make a fortress? Dad, can we make a fortress? Dad, can we make a fortress?" (Now repeat 50 more times). Eventually he caves under this [no so] subtle form of torture, and our bed becomes a tangled lump of sheets and pillows. I wait patiently downstairs for approximately 3-5 minutes when I hear the first booming thump followed by shrill cries--somebody bumped something on something, and now the party is over...until next time.