I Thought the Museum Was for My Kids

When we won tickets to the children’s museum, I thought we were about to go on an educational adventure.

You know, dinosaurs.

Volcanoes.

Maybe a giant model of the human body where a guide explains digestion while half the kids in the room make fart jokes.

Basically, I was expecting a field trip.

The kind of place where Ms. Frizzle would pull up in the Magic School Bus and immediately violate several safety regulations.

To be fair, I live in Alaska in a town that sounds so small and cozy it feels like it should have a Christmas festival sponsored by hot cocoa and mild misunderstandings.

So when somebody said we had a children’s museum, I was surprised we had one at all.

I pictured science.

I pictured learning.

I pictured myself nodding thoughtfully while pretending I remembered anything from middle school biology.

Instead, we walked in and found toys.

Just… toys.

A treehouse.

A pretend veterinarian’s office.

A playhouse.

A craft room.

And enough art supplies to make me question every life decision I’ve made regarding our craft cabinet.

This place had paint.

Feathers.

Googly eyes.

Construction paper.

Pipe cleaners.

Meanwhile, at home, I’m pretty sure we own children’s scissors, but I haven’t actually seen them in months.

At this point I assume they’re living in the same mysterious dimension as missing socks, TV remotes, and every pen I’ve ever purchased.

I’ll admit it.

I was jealous.

Not of the kids.

Of the museum.

The museum had everything.

The museum had staff.

The museum had supplies.

The museum had people whose job description apparently included cleaning up after children.

Meanwhile, at my house, every craft project begins with creativity and ends with me finding glitter three weeks later.

My kids, however, couldn’t have cared less about any of that.

They weren’t comparing.

They were just playing.

Liam headed to the pretend veterinarian area and immediately started running the place.

Answering phones.

Typing on the toy computer.

Checking on stuffed animals.

Basically acting like he had a waiting room full of nervous golden retrievers and a student loan payment due.

Alexis claimed a little playhouse and began taking care of baby dolls with the confidence of someone who has never once worried about taxes.

Then there was Ellis.

Ellis discovered a tube that shot scarves into the air.

That’s it.

No flashing lights.

No complicated technology.

Just scarves and air.

And she thought it was the greatest thing she had ever seen.

She stood underneath it laughing while scarves floated down onto her head.

Then she picked them up and did it again.

And again.

Like she had just discovered the world’s cutest superpower.

Honestly, I was fascinated watching her be fascinated.

Then Liam wandered into the craft room.

Other kids were making the projects that had been set out for them.

Liam looked at those instructions the same way Han Solo looks at a carefully thought-out plan.

Interesting suggestion.

Absolutely not happening.

He sat down and started making his own thing.

For nearly an hour.

Lately he’s been obsessed with The Mandalorian, so naturally an egg carton became a spaceship.

He painted it.

Added details.

Worked on it with complete focus.

Then he grabbed a paper plate, glued feathers around the edge, and stapled it so many times that I became convinced the real project was simply finding reasons to use the stapler.

When I asked him what the feather plate was supposed to be, even he wasn’t entirely sure.

The spaceship, though?

That was important.

And as I watched him from across the room, something hit me.

I wasn’t impressed by the spaceship.

I was impressed by him.

He wasn’t asking anyone what he should make.

He wasn’t looking around to see what everyone else was doing.

He wasn’t waiting for instructions.

He just had an idea.

And he trusted himself enough to follow it.

My chest swelled with pride.

The kind that sneaks up on you.

The kind where you suddenly realize you’ve been smiling for several minutes.

Not because your kid is doing something extraordinary.

But because they’re becoming who they are.

Watching him felt strangely familiar.

When I was little, I was obsessed with The Powerpuff Girls, Pokémon, and Sailor Moon.

I spent hours coloring.

And in my completely unbiased professional opinion as a seven-year-old, my artwork was good enough to sell.

I was absolutely convinced the world was one coloring book away from discovering my genius.

I spent countless hours pretending to be Bubbles.

Which explains a lot, honestly.

Watching Liam build that spaceship reminded me of that version of myself.

The version that didn’t worry whether something was good.

The version that created first and questioned later.

And somewhere between the flying scarves and the egg-carton spaceship, I realized I had been looking for the wrong kind of magic.

I thought magic was the building.

The exhibits.

The supplies.

The activities.

But the magic was never any of that.

The magic was the kids.

It was their imagination.

Their curiosity.

Their ability to turn an egg carton into a spaceship and a scarf into the most exciting thing on Earth.

The museum became magical the moment I stopped comparing it to what I could provide at home.

I stopped wondering how to recreate it.

And started paying attention to the kids who were already enjoying it.

Really enjoying it.

Eventually it was time to leave.

Or at least it would have been if Liam hadn’t discovered the treehouse approximately three seconds beforehand.

According to five-year-old law, this meant we absolutely could not leave.

There was still important exploring to be done.

Meanwhile, Ellis had discovered the gift shop.

Earlier she’d fallen in love with one of the toy dogs.

Thankfully they had a tiny corgi.

That corgi now lives at our house.

It goes everywhere with her.

Honestly, I’m pretty attached to it too.

The funny thing is that I left the museum with a lesson.

My kids left with a spaceship, a treehouse adventure, and a corgi.

And if I’m being honest, I think they got the better deal.

I never got a picture of Liam sitting at that craft table.

I wish I had.

But maybe that’s why I’m writing this down.

Because childhood is full of moments that don’t seem important until they’re already over.

While writing this, I kept thinking about something Mr. Rogers once said about parents forgetting their own childhood.

I used to think he meant memories.

Now I wonder if he meant wonder.

The ability to become completely absorbed in something.

To spend an hour building a spaceship from an egg carton.

Or twenty minutes watching scarves float through the air and deciding that’s the best use of your time.

For a few hours at a children’s museum, I got to borrow my kids’ perspective.

And for the first time in a long time, I remembered what childhood felt like.

I wasn’t trying to capture it.

I was actually there for it.

Bring the Museum Home

In case you’re wondering what my kids would recommend after this adventure:

Witch, Please