A few years ago (pre-kids) I was talking to a friend about what I wanted in my life that I didn’t have — I struggled to come up with the right word, and finally settled on “magic”.  At which point she looked at me like I had, perhaps, lost track of reality.  I wasn’t talking about magic like Harry Potter:  wands and spells and potions (although, if there really is a Hogwarts out there somewhere, and I get my letter, I’m absolutely going).  I didn’t, at the time, really know how to explain what I meant.

I do now.  The kind of magic I wanted in my life is exactly what I have now — it’s the kind of magic you get watching your children play with a balloon or look at a ladybug or wake up Christmas morning.  It’s the kind of magic that you feel when you do something pretty ordinary and your kids are just amazed by it:  making cookies, drawing with chalk, fixing a favorite toy.

I get to have the privilege of discovering the wonder and magic of childhood all over again, by witnessing my children’s experiences.  I absolutely love it.  And there’s the feeling that I get when I look into their faces or hear them call for me or hold their hands.  If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is.

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