T homas Wolfe tells us “You Can’t Go Home Again” and parents of grown children should be grateful for this. But in the post-holiday silence of a gray winter’s morning, I am nostalgic.

My memory of the things I did for my children thankfully draws a rose-colored veil over events I wasn’t so crazy about when they occurred. Like Paul Simon’s Kodachrome photographs, we parents choose to remember, wrongly, that all the world was a sunny day.

Family vacations are stressful. Did you ever take little kids pier fishing and not realize they were fishing for pets? Mine patted and nurtured five Kingfish all day in a tub of warm clouded salt water “until we buy an aquarium.” I kept silent about my dream of a fresh catch fish dinner, thus avoiding thousands of dollars in future Mommy Dearest psychiatric fees.

Later amid a chorus of yowling protest, we did a Free Willy ceremony by the shoreline.

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As for the ocean’s edge, what’s your endurance level for lifting your kid by both arms, up and over crashing waves — one hour, two hours? They only want to hold your hands and be lifted when angry surf is whipped by 20 mph winds.

They are squealing, leaping, tireless generators of endless energy and warmth despite pruny palms. My limit was an accumulated total of one hour per kid. During one chilly, dry nor’easter, both my arms went numb and chattering teeth shut down my ability to vocalize for help.

Perpetual activity called for constant refueling. In the eighties we trusted big business to be as concerned as we were about nutrition. So whether my excuse was numb arms on vacation or working until 6 p.m. with hungry kids just retrieved from after-school day care, we were exhausted and often headed for the mother lode of delicious fast food. McDonald’s was the bastion of all that was right with the world.

We ordered under the benevolent gaze of founder Ray Kroc, whose kindly face hung over our heads on a brass plaque.

It was enough to feed three burly construction workers. Waste not, want not, I would finish their Big Macs in addition to my own. Nobody gained weight because the home computer and 24-hour cable was not yet available.

Early ’80s grade-school boys yearned to imitate the tough street youth in New York City’s South Bronx. The “cool” allure of breakdance was irresistible. “Everybody” took lessons. Paying the hefty tuition in advance, I lined up with 30 other parents Saturday morning. Six-year-old Susanne was strangely silent. Eight-year-old Matt was the mover and shaker here.

The instructor in regal African garb explained “moves” with an intriguing accent like a Foreign Legion drill sergeant.

Suddenly Susanne did “the stiff balk” and with a look of terror announced to the room that she would not dance.

A bony index finger was pointed at me, as the boss bellowed, “No refunds lady! Take her place immediately!” Would I have jumped off the Bay Bridge if ordered in that tone? Probably.

So as my daughter flattened herself against the studio wall and giggled, I perfected my backspin, buttspin and kneespin alongside my son. No headspin for me, but I think I still could execute The Big Finish Power Move — The Suicide Drop to the back, butt and stomach.

How can kids today enjoy a trip to Disney World? They wouldn’t be allowed to board a plane or train home wearing knee buckling Mexican Sombrero souvenirs, 3 feet in diameter, carrying hot pink Piñata Donkeys.

I hefted the 4-foot metal replica of Prince Charming’s sword. What were he and Cinderella thinking? What was I thinking?

Hopefully our children one day will say with sentimental yearning for that irrecoverable past, “Mama don’t take my Kodachrome away!”

Stephanie Esworthy was director of Media and Public Relations and the Baltimore City Film Commission for former Mayors William Donald Schaefer and the late Clarence “Du” Burns and served as head of Baltimore City’s Bureau of Music in every city administration since Mayor Theodore R. McKeldin. She may be reached at steph21093@verizon.net.