Peeling the stem of a dandelion in half and rubbing it between my fingers, I say to my older son, “I used to do this when I was a little girl.” I let the stem curl up in my hand, then hand him the green spiral. “I used to pretend they were magic.”

He touches the slick interior, rolling and unrolling the piece of flower. Plucking another dandelion, he says, “It feels like Jasper, like fur.” It’s true – the dandelion fluff does feel a little like my sister-in-law’s little terrier.

As I rub another stem between my fingers, I drift back to childhood.

Sitting next to the jungle gym in my parents’ expansive backyard, peeling apart dandelions and placing them in a pile next to me. Searching for that one weed that grew a balloon-shaped flower, the key ingredient in a magic potion. Digging in the bare patches of the yard, hands coated in dirt, knowing that there was a point to it, even if that point was only in my head. Hazy, clouded memories of imaginary worlds. And yet hours and days of experiences that were beautiful, real, and meaningful to a little girl with eyes that looked beyond what was in front of her.

Another memory overlaps – watching my son walk in circles around our yard. Him asking, “Want to go on my roller-coaster?” Him running and dipping up and down the hill that drops off into the gravel strip we call our driveway. My saying, “No – we have to go inside now – it’s time for dinner!” Him ignoring me, continuing to loop around and around. Me proclaiming, “Last one!” grumbling that he wasn’t supposed to be doing any “rollercoaster rides” in the first place. My heart beating just a little faster as my annoyance rises. Me raising my voice just a little louder to let him know that I’m serious. “Come on!” Me going over and taking his hand, urging him inside so I can stop getting bitten by mosquitos.

Among this recollection, I realize there were probably times I did the exact same thing that he does. Times I begged for just a few more minutes and then took my sweet time meandering inside. Times my mom was probably as annoyed with me as I am with my son. Times when my imaginary world was far more fascinating than any counterpart in reality.

I now see the beauty in that shared thread of imagination. That while the importance of my son’s imaginary worlds to him baffles me now, the importance of mine to me probably baffled my mom. That while I may not be able to fully understand what he’s thinking, I can relate to that impulse.

So the next time my son wants to “go on a rollercoaster” around our yard, I’ll give him an extra moment or two, both for his sake and the sake of that dandelion-picking little girl from long ago.