As I walked into the kitchen, a trio of boys immediately yelled “Ava,” and I was greeted with three sweaty hugs. Orion, Atticus and Michael have known me for three years as their babysitter. About one Saturday a month, I get to spend a night hanging out with them. We play games, jam out to Adele and eat pizza bagels. Other times we have snowball fights, go on bike rides and pick apples.

I was first introduced to them through my dad. Their mom, Sarah, reached out to him, asking if my brother could babysit for her after picking up honey at my house. As it turned out, my brother doesn’t like kids as much as I do and I quickly replaced himhis gig and became their regular babysitter. It started as a simple job I’d do occasionallyon Saturday night, but as mythe relationship with their family grew, I started doing odd jobs like laundry and cleaning to help out.

Amongst those odd jobs, playing with the triom is still my favorite, since it feels like an escape from reality. It’s playtime. There is so much power in our childhoods and being around kids even when we’ve passed our younger years: their innocent minds, carefree attitudes and confidence. The more I grow up, the more I want to go back to being a kid. Being around kids gives me a lot of purpose, especially when our world can seem repetitive. When I’m around them, it makes me feel powerful. Not because I’m the babysitter, but because it gives me a chance to positively impact them as they grow up. Together, we can get lost in their worlds.

I often think back to the magic of myour childhoods.

Strolling through my grandma’s garage, opening the door and being immersed in the familiar scent of fresh laundry and rose candles after Christmas Eve mass was one of my favorite memories. I waited for this moment every year — the night before Santa came, when the whole house was decorated with lights and the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies. Everything about it was so lively. The family was together, cousins and aunts surrounding me as we all sat in the “great room” at my grandma’s house, patiently waiting as each person opened their gift, youngest to oldest.

As I’ve gotten older, the holiday season feels different. Not a bad different, but a new different. The magic isn’t as strong. The excitement isn’t as high. I wake up on Christmas like every other day. A lot of magic seems lost, but it’s not gone; it’s just rooted in different things. I care more about the time I get with my family rather than the number of gifts I receive. Our holidays aren’t as consistent either, with everyone getting older and living far away. Sometimes we’re gone on vacation. Other years, we don’t see my cousins since we saw them at Thanksgiving or the previous summer, and years go by since our last Griffith family Christmas.

I ache for those snowy Christmases where we’d pack into the back of my grandpa’s truck to go sledding in the state land behind their house. We’d sled until my face was so red from running up the hill and my toes were numb. Then we’d make our way back to the warm fireplace and hot cocoa waiting for us in the kitchen and play games for the rest of the day.

Though I ache to go back and relive those memories, I’ve found that surrounding myself with kids helps me to fill that void I’m so deeply missing. Along with the boys, I’ve spent the past three summers nannying for family friends and new families I’ve met. The recent connections I’ve made with both the kids and parents have made me realize how much I want to pursue a career with kids.

The choice to go to the University of Michigan and stay close to home to keep these connections was a factor in my decision. Along with it being an amazing school for what I want to study, it also allows me to refill my cup and stay close to the bonds I’ve worked so hard to make.

I’m 18 now, and I’ll never be a kid again. But when Orion, Atticus and Michael run toward me, yelling my name, sweaty from playing outside and eager to show me the next game they’ve invented, I realize that maybe I haven’t lost childhood after all. Instead, I get to witness it again through them. The magic I remember from Christmas mornings and snowy sledding hills hasn’t disappeared — it has simply changed hands. Now it lives in their laughter, their imagination and the small moments we share on Saturday nights. And if I can help preserve even a little bit of that magic as they grow up, then maybe growing older doesn’t mean leaving childhood behind. Maybe it just means learning how to pass it on.