My youngest granddaughter is eleven. She recently stayed over for a few days, which for me was a non-stop, high-energy, why walk when you can run, goof-around, back-and forth word-play episode of exuberant joy.
Being a senior adult, I’m mostly surrounded by other seniors, many of whom I love dearly, but all of whom, like me, have serious things on their minds. Being eleven is just on the cusp of grappling with serious things, yet close enough to childhood to still dip into its exuberant pool of delight and excitement. Once past twelve, something happens: we quickly grow up and living changes from childhood delight to serious adult preoccupations.
Toddlers exhibit the same pool of exuberance: endless curiosity and openness to new experiences, the same impulse that inclines babies, in their eagerness to encounter the world, to put everything in their mouths, or at least to try…