I’m sure someone has a term for it somewhere, but there has to be a word for treating yourself like the kid you never got to be, for not just getting in touch with your inner child but dropping all that psychobabble and being your inner child for an afternoon, letting that knock-kneed, frizzy-headed gosling I was at ten lead the way. Mostly, this means I pet goats and feed blades of grass to their greedysoft lips through some farmer’s fence, or maybe I imbibe mint-chocolate ice cream before a dinner of canned peas warmed with a little butter and salt (don’t judge—peas are an all-time comfort food for me). Other times, this means I get to things I never did when I was young, which is why I took an afternoon earlier this month to fly a kite. Now, when Jessica learned last year that this simple pleasure was missing from my catalog of childhood memories, she was horrified, and last Christmas, she gifted me this beauty—a bluebird of happiness, parade fangled and bright. We held on to it for all of those cold, hard-working months with no way to get her off the ground until we got here to North Carolina where the wind was Mary-Poppins perfect up on Max Patch, a mountain bald right outside of Hot Springs. It took a few tries, but then suddenly the wind took on flesh, making the string taut, jumping as if there were a fish torquing the line. Jessica bounded across the field with it too, stirring up the curiosity of a dog named Otis who leapt into the air trying to catch this marvel flying so steady in the sky.