I loved my piggy bank. When I was 6 years old, I would pull the plastic plug out of her belly and dump the pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters out onto my bed. Next, I would sort the coins into piles. Then I would organize the piles into smaller groups of 100 cents. I felt rich.
As a 12-year-old, my mom would give me spending money for our yearly family vacation. During the week-long camping trip at Jellystone Campground, I had the opportunity to go mini-golfing and to spend my money on treats and souvenirs. It felt so powerful to have the choice to buy as much ice cream as I wanted–or not. I would walk around the camp store every day admiring the mugs, keychains, and refrigerator magnets. I could buy any of these things. But I didn’t. Instead, I always counted my leftover money at the end of the week and added it to my piggy bank. I felt rich. Continue reading