Was I Ever a Young Mom with Young Children?

Today, when I was walking home from yoga and about to turn right on 37th and Jefferson, I had a random thought. I saw a plastic, yellow bat in front of the house on the corner. That family has 4 young children. I suppose they were outside playing in the front yard recently. I saw that bat and I thought of the children who live there and wondered if I had ever been young and had little children? I mean I know both were true at some point in the remote past but I don't even feel like it was ever me. I have to think about this some more.  It's disconcerting and deeply unsettling to  acknowledge that I have spent a good portion of my life just existing and not really living in any moment.  I cannot go back in time and, to be fair to myself, I also have to take into consideration how depression has periodically crippled me probably from a fairly young age. I don't remember much about my childhood but I do definitely associate the insidious black cloud of depression with myself regardless of whether I was a child or an adult. As I walked Yoshi earlier, I could see a hawk soaring in the sky to the south. Birds don't have hands. They can't write love letters or eat left- or right-handed but they can fly. Perhaps, that is more than adequate compensation? What if I could fly? Like, maybe, I can't fly over Westport or distant lands because my bones aren't hollow and I don't have precisely designed wings but, if I lived the life of my dreams even at age 56, maybe metaphorical flying is not out of the question.