Those who know me will know that I have a few scraps of childhood that I can't quite shake; picnics, stockings and Easter egg hunts being the main three.
When given the opportunity of the above, I revert back to the kid within. A picnic, in my mind's eye, is always set on a sunny day and full of tupperware boxes of chicken drumsticks, scotch eggs and small tightly packed pieces of tin foil with salt inside, ready for dipping cucumber and celery sticks into. Stockings are the start to my Christmas and I still get a bubbling buzz of excitement when I feel that lumpy sock at the end of my bed. And Easter egg hunts, well - they transform an ordinary garden into a magical wonderland. Yes, it is fair to say that I don't think I will ever shake off these rather rose tinted childhood fantasies and I don’t want to.
So whilst I apologise to those around me who obligingly partake in recreations of my favourite memories, I’m glad that I still have such a strong connection with them. It’s made it all the more important to me to appreciate that each time my children run along a wall, or splash in a puddle, they are experiencing their own moments of magic, some of which will stay with them for the rest of their lives. They might not be Easter egg hunts, or stockings, or picnics, but whatever they are, I'm excited about them experiencing and preserving that magic, their own little bubbles of happiness.
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