like kids

I want to be like the little girl who crawled under the library tables — just because she wanted to — before rushing back to her mother’s side. I’ll admit to having somersaulted through the aisles of the store where I used to work, but that doesn’t count: no one saw me.

I want to be like the 3-to-4-year-old girl — with glasses too big for her face and curls too big for her head — who grabbed book upon book from the stash of Harlequin romances… simply to find satisfaction in examining the cards and mail-order forms stuck in its binding. I want to be satisfied in things like that.

I want to be like the girl who didn’t care so much about the thrill of watching a falcon fly around at a Medieval Times dinner show as much as she cared about the consequences: “what if it poops on our plates?” Hey, good question! Why didn’t I ask it first?

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