Over and over she said, "I'm a butterfly, I'm a butterfly!"
Once she was all set, she ran to the middle of the room and strained upward with all her might. Next she tried hopping off the ground several times. Finally she returned to me, hugged my knees, and looked up at me with the most mournful puppy dog eyes you've ever seen.
Completely crestfallen she said, "Daddy, I can't fly."
Call it innocence lost, or a reality check, but I had the very real sense that her big, beautiful world got just a little bit smaller. There isn't much I wouldn't have given for her to be able, just this once, to spread her wire hanger and pantyhose wings with glitter and sequins and soar around the room.
I think we as adults forget how magical this world is when seen through the eyes of a child, yet we wonder why we're not happy.
I've posted it before, but it fits well here:
I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those that make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth sets Fact free from its fetters.