Growing up is wonderful; it’s miraculous. New words. New accomplishments and abilities. But it’s also hard and scary and sometimes it’s sad. It’s not just the goldfish that don’t last a week or the blankies that get lost, there are the everyday losses of not being little anymore.
“I can sit under the dining-room table and make it my house … Grown ups can’t sit under the table,” says the heroine of Charlotte Zolotow’s I Like to Be Little, “That’s why I like to be little.”
I remember the day my daughter realized that she could no longer sit in the cupb