As the pile upon us deepens, gets heavier, harder to dig out from under, life goes on.
I read a story penned by my youngest, about her life as a superhero, with superpowers. She was super great, even in the title, her name written in large bubble letters followed by as many bubble exclamation points as she could fit. She breathed under water. She flew. It was perfect.
"I like your story," I said.
"I really wish I could fly," she answered with a big grin on her face and wishful eyes.
"Me too. I wished that a lot when I was a girl."
"I want to be able to breathe under water too."
"Wouldn't that be great?"
And she cackled, tumbled and flipped and flitted and carried on about our bed until we made her stop and get ready to go to sleep. I do not wish to be a child again, only to think like one from time to time, especially from under the weight of it all.