My husband is from South Carolina — the state where you don’t have to wear helmets on a motorcycle and you can detonate a backyard fireworks’ show packing enough TNT to last Wile E. Coyote for a lifetime. 

As a kid, my sister and I had an unspoken pact. If one of us heard Cyndi Lauper come on the radio, we promptly ran through the house hollering “Come quick, she’s on!” 

We have lots of bug barns in our house: from the old-fashioned Mason jar with holes punched in the lid to a new-fangled, plastic-domed “ladybug playground” with tiny slides and such.

I wager in most families bug barns are relegated to the backyard. Ours, however, take up residence on the kitchen table, with up to four bug barns simultaneously occupied by caterpillars, ants, moths, beetles and even spiders.

Count my daughter among the millions of kids whose first word was “doggy.” For a several-week stretch, “doggy” was also her only word. She used it liberally, be it a salutation for the grocery store clerk or pointing out a squirrel in the backyard.

We don’t have a dog anymore, but there’s something about dogs. Kids just love them. Mine are no exception.

I have faint but fond memories of picking strawberries as a kid: the twisty, dusty gravel roads leading to the farm, being handed my very own big-girl pail by the strawberry lady and, most notably, sneaking mouthfuls when my mom wasn’t looking.