I was telling Michael tonight at bedtime how much he loved being swaddled when he was a baby. In fact, it was the only way he could sleep, and over the seven months he slept that way (yes, I know that’s a long time to swaddle a baby, but nobody asked you. And besides, if I thought it would keep him asleep past 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning these days, I’d swaddle him in a heartbeat), Dave and I perfected what, at the time, we referred to as the “baby burrito.”

Michael was so curious about it and kept asking, so I took out a flat sheet, had him lay down on it, and proceeded to swaddle a four foot tall 8-year-old. It was actually pretty awesome, and he loved it. In fact, he said he was really comfy, and scooched his head up onto his pillow to figure out if it might be a good idea to try and sleep like that (thankfully, he decided it wouldn’t, because I was envisioning being called down to his room around midnight because he had to go to the bathroom and couldn’t un-swaddle himself out his burrito wrapping).

I find it interesting that kids love so much to hear stories about themselves from when they were smaller. In fact, nobody appreciates stories about my kids (which, of course, I love to tell), than my kids.

There’s something really delightful for me when I reminisce about sweet or funny memories with the bigger versions of the people they happened with. And I love that they appreciate these memories. Almost as much as I do.