While waiting for my husband to close up shop, I sit at a table by the Kid’s Place door in McDonald’s reading a colleague’s dissertation. A young girl, perhaps all of four years old, rushes to the entrance and peers inside. Speaking in decibels only audible to canines and the people who love them, her face is lit with excitement. Her tiny body strains on tip toe, exerting all the discipline she can possibly muster, she waits for her mother to nod permission to enter. I steal a few envious glances over the top of my computer screen, wishing my phone’s camera were at the ready, wanting to be her, almost remembering such elation as my own, knowing it is – though I can recall not even a single occurrence in my well-remembered and equally well-mined childhood. I believe it will be again. You can bet your butterfly barretts it will be, Missy! It will be again. Friends and acquaintances, insert your earplugs. Having ditched my wig in recent months, you might get ready to have yours blown all the way back!

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