I’ve been a “grown-up” for around 30 years now, but at times it feels like yesterday when I was “just a kid.” I still miss those younger days when I didn’t know so much or worry so much or have to do so much. Mark Twain said, “It is not likely that there has ever been a civilized person 65 years old who would consent to live his life over again.” I understand the reason for those words, yet there are times when I wouldn’t mind living like a child again, even if only for a moment.

I miss having recess during the school day, and snack time, and gym “class,” and field trips. I miss summertime, when it was an actual break and each day seemed endless. I miss riding my bike to my friend’s house in the morning and not having to be home until dinner time or later—and these long absences caused no concern for my mother. I miss playing pickup games of basketball or football or baseball with all of the other neighborhood kids, just for the fun of it. I miss wondering what I would do when I grew up and thinking my dream of getting paid to throw baseballs for a living would actually come true.

I miss my innocence and my ignorance of how rotten I can be and how awful other people can behave. I miss that place in my mind where anything was possible and friends never deserted you and people never gossiped and kids weren’t abused and mommies and daddies stayed together forever. I miss that feeling of immortality, even if, deep down, I knew it wasn’t real.