In her rage, my five-year-old screamed, “I wish you were a frog.” My legs bent evenly, skin turning smooth and moist—a middle-aged dream—and I fell, crouching to the floor, eyes bulging, hungering for insects. Luckily, we had an ant problem. Meanwhile, my two-year-old laughed, pointed at my feet, and said “ball,” and my feet each turned into the ladybug soccer ball she loved so much.

So, I tripped and rolled around the house, my children screeching with laughter. “More, more!” they said. The purest essence of joy. And wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that the whole fucking point?