Oh, those precious memories of childhood! Everyone has them, and some are more precious than others. I was the middle child, but before you feel sorry for me, let me tell you: I was the only girl with an older and younger brother. Some might say I was a daddy’s girl, and they wouldn’t be wrong. Growing up, I lived on a dead-end street in Elk Township, New Jersey. We rode bikes and motorcycles, swung from Tarzan swings, swam in our pool, and played under the streetlight when the sun went down.
Most of my childhood was spent barefoot, running around, making mud pies, riding bikes, and rollerblading up and down our street with the salty ocean breeze until the streetlights came on. For much of my life, I lived in New Jersey; just three miles from the beach. My summers were spent adorned with sunburned shoulders and cheeks (I can still hear my dad yelling at me to put on sunscreen), enjoying day trips to the beach, rides on the boardwalk, and eating ice cream cones and THE BEST pizza. I’m a Jersey girl through and through.
