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Growing up in the 80’s and 90’s wasn’t just a time—it was a feeling. It was the excitement of Saturday morning cartoons, the joy of unwrapping a new toy, and the endless imagination that turned simple things into unforgettable adventures. Looking back, these were some of the highlights that made childhood truly magical:

1. E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial – This movie wasn’t just a story; it was an experience. The friendship between Elliott and E.T. felt so real, like we could have our own alien best friend hiding in our closet. I remember falling asleep on E.T. bed sheets, clutching my stuffed doll, wishing I could ride my bike into the sky.

2. Garbage Pail Kids – These were so weird, so gross, and yet so fascinating. You either adored them or couldn’t stand them. The trading cards had the best (or worst) names, and we collected them like treasure. But the movie? Let’s just say some things are better left in the past.

3. G.I. Joes – I wanted these so badly, imagining epic battles and secret missions. But instead, I got a doll car. I still remember the sting of disappointment, though that car did get its fair share of adventures.

4. Nintendo – The ultimate childhood rite of passage. Everyone had one, or at least knew someone who did. Blowing into cartridges, mastering Super Mario Bros., and arguing over who got the next turn—it was a way of life.

5. Glow Worms – There was something so comforting about that soft, glowing face in the dark. It wasn’t just a toy; it was a guardian against the monsters under the bed.

6. Roller Skates – The roller rink was the place to be. Birthday parties, limbo contests, and that heart-racing moment when your crush skated by—nothing beat the freedom of gliding across the floor with neon lights flashing around you.

7. Barbie – The ultimate world-builder. Whether we were creating dream homes, going on adventures, or planning weddings, Barbie was the key to endless storytelling.

8. Cabbage Patch Kids – Parents fought in stores just to get their hands on one of these. If you were lucky enough to have one, you knew you had something special. The adoption papers, the unique faces—each doll felt like it was truly your own.

9. Matchbox Cars – Pure joy in a tiny metal frame. Racing them through loops, building tracks, and launching them off makeshift ramps—it was simple, but it never got old.

Looking back, these weren’t just toys and movies—they were pieces of a childhood filled with wonder, adventure, and endless imagination. It was a time when magic was real, friendships were forged over shared toys, and the world felt limitless.

What were your favorite childhood memories?

Do you ever catch yourself staring at the clock, watching the minutes crawl by, each tick feeling like an eternity? Time moves painfully slow in those moments—waiting in a doctor’s office, sitting through a funeral, or even anticipating the start of a wedding. Sometimes in the evening, I glance at the clock, and it feels like time has almost stopped. It drags during the dullest moments, like suffering through a terrible TV show or a movie that just won’t end.

And then, there are the moments that slip away too fast—the ones I want to hold onto forever. A great movie that ends too soon, a day at an amusement park that disappears in a blur of laughter, a date night that feels like it just started before it’s time to go home. Time itself doesn’t change, but how we feel it does.

Maybe the slow moments are there to remind us to pause, to take a breath, to be grateful for the time we have. And maybe the fast ones remind us to cherish every second, to be fully present, because no matter how much we want to, we can’t rewind. All we can do is make the most of every moment—whether time is crawling or flying—because each one is a gift.

If I had it my way, I’d keep my kids here forever—safe under my roof, within arm’s reach, where I could still hear their laughter echoing through the halls. But that’s not how life works. They’ve grown, they’ve spread their wings, and now they’re carving out their own paths.

My oldest is married now, living in a home of his own. My youngest is thriving in college, chasing dreams that once felt so far away. I couldn’t be prouder of them. But pride doesn’t stop the ache of an emptier house, the quiet that sometimes feels too quiet.

So, we’ve made changes—not just to adjust, but to embrace this new season. Our living room looks different now, our two electronic chairs front and center, a space just for us. The room that once belonged to our oldest is slowly transforming—fresh paint, new carpet, a den where new memories will be made.

But in the midst of all this change, one thing remains—our connection. The phone rings, and it’s my youngest, calling just to talk, just like always. The door opens, and there’s my oldest, stopping by at least once a week, reminding us that home will always be home.

They may not be here every day, but they are never far. And while this chapter looks different, it is still full—full of love, full of gratitude, full of the deep, unwavering bond that time and distance will never break. What change have you been through recently?

It was supposed to be just a false alarm. I didn’t expect anything serious, just a routine check. But when I got there, my blood pressure was high, and suddenly, everything changed. Today was the day I was going to have my baby.

My heart pounded as I quickly called my husband, telling him to get there as soon as he could. When he arrived, I tried to keep things light, joking and laughing with him, holding onto any sense of normalcy. But beneath the laughter, the reality was sinking in—our lives were about to change forever.

It all happened so fast. One moment, I was being told to wait for the doctor before I could push, and the next, they were laying my son on my lap. He was so tiny, so fragile. My heart swelled with love and fear all at once. Was I ready for this? This precious little life was ours, completely dependent on us.

I was terrified of hurting him, handling him with the utmost care, afraid even the smallest mistake could shatter something so perfect. But we took it one day at a time, learning as we went, cherishing every tiny moment. Because from that day forward, life was never just ours—it was his, too.

Have you had any children yet?

I was little when my Nana passed, but some memories are etched so deeply in my heart that time could never take them away. Every time I visited, we would make Rice Krispie treats together. I can still remember the way the buttery marshmallows stuck to my fingers and the sound of her laughter as we shaped them just right.

She always spoke about her faith in God, not in a way that felt forced, but in a way that made you feel safe—like no matter what, everything would be okay. We would play dominos for what felt like hours, and she had this special way of keeping us busy, making sure every moment spent together was full of love.

She was one of the sweetest, kindest souls I’ve ever known. She had a love for fine china, each delicate piece a reflection of her grace. After she passed, my dad gave me one of her teacups. When I hold it, I feel a connection to her, as if a little piece of her still lingers with me.

I miss her, but I know this isn’t goodbye forever. One day, I will see her again.

Who was your favorite person growing up?

Past wounds, bullying, abuse, – created a monster inside me. It wrapped around my mind, tightening its grip whenever I tried to step outside my comfort zone. Anxiety didn’t just whisper; it roared.

When I stayed with friends, I fought against an invisible force that paralyzed me. I needed to go home. I needed to hug my mom not just once but repeatedly, as if each embrace might quiet the storm inside me. But it never did. The compulsion only grew, pulling me back again and again, until sometimes, I ultimately gave in and canceled my plans.

Even leaving the house turned into a battle. I had to check the door, ensuring it was shut, locked, and safe. Once wasn’t enough. Twice wasn’t sufficient. I would check repeatedly, terrified that if I didn’t check our door, our cat might escape. My mind refused to believe what my eyes saw, trapping me in a loop I couldn’t escape.

This prison of compulsions stole moments I should have spent with family, friends, and life. Breaking free wasn’t easy—it took time, effort, and sheer willpower. And even now, I know that monster still lingers in the shadows. Maybe it always will, but I will always be ready for the battle.

Do you struggle from OCD or anxiety?

In first grade, I struggled with organization, and my teacher found it challenging to manage me in the classroom. Whenever she asked us to clean our desks, I would feel overwhelmed. No matter how hard I tried, tidying up felt impossible. Instead of helping me find a solution, she singled me out. She would take my picture, attach a note, and send it home to my parents.

My parents found her methods cruel. As punishment for my messy desk, I had to stay in during recess to clean—a task that, at the time, felt insurmountable.

Years later, during my senior year of high school, I saw her again. This time, I was different. I was thriving. I told her how well I was doing and that I had been accepted into college. In that moment, it felt like I had finally closed that chapter of my life.

Did a teacher ever single you out?

So many emotions are wrapped up in my sister—love, joy, pain, and longing. I loved her fiercely, though our relationship was unlike any other. Katie had Rett Syndrome, and her world was one of silent expressions—smiles lit up a room, frowns that spoke volumes, pure and uninhibited laughter, and screams that carried emotions too big for words.

She spent most of her life in a Christian home, a place where she was truly happy. She grew there in ways that amazed us. With a simple sheet of words to point to, she found a way to make her needs known. And through keyboard testing, she even recognized who we were—proving to us what we had always hoped: she understood. Every visit, she greeted us with beaming smiles, and when we hugged her, she would sometimes tap us gently on the back. It was her way of saying, I know you’re here. I love you, too.

But there was no one she loved more than our mom. Their bond was something beyond words, beyond gestures—it was written in every glance, every touch, every moment they shared. When our mom passed, something in Katie changed. She searched for her, her eyes scanning for the presence that had always been her safe place. She was happy to see me, but her laughter had lost its sparkle. The joy wasn’t the same.

I had questioned, at times, how much she truly understood. But I will never forget the day I told her that our mom was gone. In that moment, I knew—she understood everything. A shadow fell over her face, and then she broke. She sobbed in a way I had never seen before, deep, inconsolable cries that shook her fragile frame. It was as if something inside her let go, as if the very thing that had kept her holding on had vanished.

And then, just a few weeks later, she was gone too. She had fought long enough. She had waited for my mom as long as she could. And when she knew it was time, she let go.

I like to think of them together now—my mom holding her the way she always had, Katie smiling that radiant smile, finally home.