my bed and remember every digit. At four I was an Arabian wizard. I could make myself invisible by drinking a glass of milk a certain way. At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light. Back then it never fell so solemnly against the side of my tree house, and my bicycle never leaned against the garage as it does today, all the dark blue speed drained out of it. This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself, as I walk through the universe in my sneakers. It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends, time to turn the first big number. It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed. It's so hard to balance the professional and the personal, but maybe even more so when work really *is* so personal. When the work stuff that brings home the bacon so to speak holds almost everything you value as a human being, it must be superhard to draw that line. But it's so so important to actually have that line, I think. If not only to ground you again, because otherwise you might literally drown. As a mom myself with a 4-year-old kid I know how conflicting it is to