The fort

Sometimes I am genuinely proud of myself. As a single mother, I am often faced with challenges that, honestly, I believe would overwhelm most of the men I know. As the only parent, I have to stand my ground in both the mother and the father roles. And while in a two-parent household it is often the case that the mother comes up with the idea and the father makes it happen, here the mother comes up with the idea and the mother makes it happen. One way or another, it has to be done. I was not born into wealth, and the "father" does not support the child in any way, so the option of hiring a professional is simply off the table. Still, there is no such thing as not doing it.

What there is, however, is figuring it out somehow. So the mother fixes things, builds furniture, renovates, repairs the car, all while raising a child, cooking, washing, sewing, cleaning, and working. And of course, she studies too. A new language. New habits. An entirely new country. New systems. A new profession. Sometimes I think about how much I have learned over the past few years simply because there was no other choice.

But why am I proud of myself right now? My daughter is in that phase where forts are everything. She had secret hiding places in the wardrobe, crawled under the table, built tents out of boxes and blankets in the middle of the living room, and occasionally even lay down under the bed. This desire for a private, enclosed, safe little world does not seem to fade. And why should it? A child needs a place that belongs only to them. There was nothing to do but build a fort. That is how it happened that I designed one in the corner of the living room. Endless rows of bookshelves and a bunk bed, something children are drawn to anyway. I drew, measured, made sketches, then threw them out and started again, over and over. I had to work with what we already had, because although you can buy ready-made bunk beds with built-in forts, they are expensive, and there simply was no room for another "resident" among the furniture already living there. So I kept thinking until the final idea took shape.

That said, no matter how much I like to think of myself as a super mom whose strength rivals that of Superman, I had to admit that I cannot be at both ends of a 210-centimetre-long bed at the same time. The moment when the bed has to be lifted and placed on top of the fort is one where both ends need to be held simultaneously. This is the moment when even a single mother acknowledges that there are limits. No problem. I waited for my parents' Christmas visit, and that critical step was taken care of too.

Yesterday, I finally finished the project. The ladder went up, I built the guardrail, we made the bed, and my child claimed her now safe bunk-bed fort. I watched her climb up, crawl inside, settle in, and there was that kind of calm on her face that you only see when a child is exactly where they are meant to be. And I am proud of myself. Not because I built a fort, but because I can give my child everything she truly needs. Safety. Space. Attention. Love. Sometimes I feel like I might even be spoiling her. Then I remind myself that I am not spoiling her with things, but with presence, care, and the message that her mother is here and she will fix it.