Fast Forward

Ten years ago, when it could be said I was somewhat of a party girl, I used to allay my guilt by "fast forwarding." I'd imagine I was a ninety-year-old woman sitting in a rocking chair on a wrap-around porch, reminiscing about my past. All wrinkled and chaste, I'd smile about how I'd taken advantage of my youth when I could. How I wore the least amount of clothing I could get away with and I lived in the moment when the opportunity arose. Whether or not it alleviated any guilt, it was fun to imagine the present as the past.

I reuse this tactic, but it has little to do with my wild side. Now it's strictly a coping mechanism used in times of frazzlement. For instance when I'm trying to eat a meal and Gigi wants to sit on my lap and pick at my food or clumsily feed it to me. Instead of shooing her away, which is what I want to do, I pick her up and set her on my lap. And I fast forward.

I imagine eight years from now when not only is she not on my lap, she's not even home. She's at school, and possibly sitting on some boy's lap who I already don't approve of.

Or when Harrison's begging for ten more minutes of cuddle time in bed when it's already been half an hour and I'm dying to have some time to myself. How much longer before he shoos me away, two years? Three? So we cuddle.

The other day while purging some of his toys I came across an Autopia driver's license with Harrison's picture on it. When we rode in the car that day at Disneyland, I was six months pregnant with Gigi and the three of us tried to fit into one car...barely. The three of us would never fit into that car again, and while it was a seemingly insignificant moment, we took advantage of it and did something that couldn't be done in the future. I know that now, and I only had to press play.