A girl called a boy about a room to let, in a large brownstone flat, in a neighborhood near the University. The boy and the girl met, and married, and his job carried them far away from the city they loved, and the places that were familiar and cosy. Then, as time went by, babies began to happen, and continued to happen, until the boy decided to build a farmhouse in the country where his babies could play in the fresh air, and dig dirt, and chase the brown dog. More babies came, and the farmhouse did not seem so roomy anymore, but there was still plenty of roaming about in the outdoors to do, and the brown dog did not try to knock over the babies anymore, and the boy built a tree-fort for the babies, and they played happily in the fresh air every decent afternoon. The end.
Until I got home yesterday and saw the children had dragged every bit of garage-rubbish (you know, the stuff that doesn't fit into the bin, so you store it, waiting for the one day you will break down and order a dumpster, because you really thought the builders of your house meant it when they said they'd haul away all the construction debris) out to the tree-fort, and suddenly the theme song from "Sanford &Son" is playing in your head and it won't stop, and there is a freaking louvered door and a dirty, plastic lawn chair on the platform, and bicycles strewn everywhere, and sidewalk chalk 'art' covers the drive. And you sit in the car, pondering how it all happened, and how you're going to get a louvered door into the trash bin. The end.