Do you remember your favourite toy or game from childhood?

I often think back to mine — not just the toys but the people who brought those early years to life.
I grew up before smartphones and tablets, long before children's channels or digital libraries full of colouring pages and bedtime stories. Even a landline was a rarity, and books were few and treasured. But what I had was something far richer—people.
I was the only child in my mother's family for the first six years. The youngest after me was my twenty-year-old aunt, so I was truly spoiled with attention. The grown-ups around me were my world—my playmates, teachers, and storytellers.
One of my absolute favourite things to do was play with grains — rice, lentils, barley — anything I could pour, scoop, and stir. I had authentic metal bowls and big wooden spoons, and I can still remember the joyful clatter as I moved tiny handfuls from one dish to another. I'd pretend to cook, and my grandad would happily "taste" everything I made, always praising my imaginary meals with a twinkle in his eye.
But my grandfather didn't just play — he taught. He showed me the wonders of every day: how ants build their hills, how birds gather twigs for their nests, and how dragonflies hover over the river. He spoke about these creatures with such reverence. "Even a spider," he'd say, "has its place in the world — and its web, however small, is a masterpiece we must not destroy." That deep respect for nature is something I carry with me to this day.
My grandmother, on the other hand, wove magic through words. She told me bedtime stories made up on the spot, spinning them night after night until I drifted off, warm and content.
My dad was my first art teacher. He drew animals, trees, balloons and butterflies for me to colour. I adored it. There's a beloved family story about the time I coloured not just the pictures… but an entire living room wall.
I also had wooden blocks in all shapes and colours, which I loved to stack and arrange into little cities and castles. With Mum, I learnt how to plant seeds and care for them, marvelling each day as they turned from tiny sprouts into full tomato bushes. I'd eat the fruit straight from the plant, and I still believe nothing from a supermarket ever tastes quite the same.
Summers were full of flower crowns and wild bouquets. My cousins and I would plait wreaths for our hair and race through the meadows like forest fairies.
I also remember blowing soap bubbles — not with a plastic wand or store-bought kit, but with a bit of rye straw, the old-fashioned way. I'd snip the straw so one end could be bent outward slightly, then dip it gently into a mixture of water and shampoo. Blowing ever so softly, I could create one bubble at a time. It was quiet work — slow and careful. I learned to be patient, to breathe gently, and to try again when the bubble popped too soon. And oh, how magical it felt when a bubble shimmered in the sunlight and floated away.
And the bark boats! Oh, how I loved those. My dad carved them for me, and we'd float them down little streams like explorers on a fantastic voyage. Picnics were pure joy — isn't it funny how food always tastes better outdoors?
And then came winter… sledging down hills, building snowmen, and the best snowball fights ever. Boredom? I didn't even know the word.
Now I look at my son, who is already grown and beginning his journey, and I see how different his childhood was from mine. Today, everything is just a click away. Toys, games, books—even whole worlds—are available in seconds, often for free.
(And yes, if you haven't yet, pop over to the Storytelling section on my website — there you'll find a free weekly series about a detective field mouse named Fifi and her best friend Aurora the golden retriever, with printable colouring pages and activities for every story.)
But even with all this abundance, I know one thing hasn't changed: children still need us—our time, our stories, our wonder, our listening.
So, my dear reader, I wish your little ones grow up with rich, colourful, and connected memories.
And one day, may they say: "My childhood was magical."

Sending hugs,

Joanna 💛