I don't think life will be simple - or that simple - ever again. I don't think there will ever be days when the most crucial problem I have to is to figure out how to make the mud the exact proper consistency so that I can load trucks with it and dump it out again without having it all run out the sides or just melt into a puddle.
I'm not convinced that I will ever enjoy doing the dishes solely because it meant that I would be able to play in a sink full of warm water with loads of bubbles in it and use all the soap I wanted under the disguise of 'doing work.' And I'm pretty sure that I won't ever have the opportunity to drink so much water that when I jump up and down I'll be able to hear it sloshing around in my stomach - just for laughs.
Instead, I have other simple pleasures now. I can walk into my sons' rooms and see them sleeping - or not arguing.
I can call my sister and talk about a memory from a past life that nobody but she will understand and or identify with. I can take a great deal of comfort in the certaintly that at least one person knows I am not entirely insane or ruined. My children are not convinced of this.
And . . . . I can remember the joy that I found in wearing my new shoes in the sandbox because I knew it would irritate my Mother.