There is an inherent tension in building miniature environments: we spend hours striving for historical accuracy, perfect scale, and delicate craftsmanship, creating rooms that look as though they belong in a museum.

And then, an oversized, bright pink plastic teacup appears on the mahogany dining table.

When my five-year-old niece visits, the studio transforms. She is actually incredibly careful with the miniatures—a trait I'm very thankful for—but her vision for interior design doesn't quite align with the Fin-de-Siècle aesthetic. I frequently find brightly colored plastic toys happily coexisting with delicate wooden antiques, completely ignoring the rules of 1:12 scale.

✦ Photo coming soon
A funny/sweet photo of a beautifully staged room interrupted by a completely out-of-scale kid's toy will go here.

And you know what? That is absolutely okay.

I had to learn to let go. A studio should be a living space, not a sterile vault. When the girls are older, I will teach them about historically accurate design, the importance of scale, and the architectural principles that make a space feel real—just like my dad did for me when we built models together. I’ll teach them how to use a scale ruler and how to identify different periods of furniture.

But for now? We are working on numbers.

Our current favorite game involves the new furniture store ("Jade & Kali's"). We take turns playing the shopkeeper and the customer. She loves setting up multiples of items—lining up chairs perfectly, stacking tiny rugs. I used to do exactly the same thing. (If I'm being honest, I still do. There's a deep satisfaction in a neatly organized inventory).

✦ Photo coming soon
A photo of the kids playing store, or the cash register setup, will go here.

We practice counting currency at the tiny cash register, tallying up the cost of a miniature armoire. It’s a wonderful reminder that before these objects are art, before they are design exercises, they are toys. And their primary function is to foster connection and play.