Ode To a Four-Year-Old

I have a four-year-old daughter.  She is a magical little person in many ways, but in one especially: she is so very easily entertained.  Tonight's activities, for example:

1.  Gleefully pointing out every pink object in the grocery store.
2.  Dueling dramatic readings of Sandra Boynton's Doggies.
3.  A nice long bath dramatizing several original stories featuring Ariel rescuing Flounder.
4.  The Pajama Monster game, in which she plays a monster easily defeating the parent attempting to put her to bed.  I'm not being ironic here.  She's so dang cute saying RAWR! and collapsing into giggles it takes Herculean resolve to put her to bed.  In fact, I failed utterly.  Instead I sic'd the Pajama Monster on her father at the other end of the couch, at which point the P.M. met its match: the Daddy Socked Foot Monster.  That battle went on for another five minutes until D.S.F.M. had P.M. pinned to the floor and giggling so hard he could finally scoop her up and deposit her in bed.

Why do I go on about this?  Is it really my intention to bore readers with stories about my children?  No.  I promise I won't make a habit of this.  My point is there was a time in our lives when our thrills were simple and elemental.  The highest goal I have in my fiction writing is give the reader a path back to her own fountain of youth, where wonder, excitement, and joy flow pure.