When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a (wo)man, I put away childish things.
There was a time in my life when a rainy afternoon meant I could cuddle up on the couch with a book and blanket and enter another world. Instead, I find myself on my stability ball trying to decode yet another facet of work while Ida whips around us getting ready to dump us with rain galore. Why do children have so much time and adults have none? Surely they have the energy and stamina to withstand this better than I do?