Sometimes, in a fleeting moment of clarity between drill sergeant episodes, I tell myself that I should try to see it from her perspective.
Logically, I know her almost-3-year-old point of reference is galaxies removed from my adult reality of schedules and stresses. While I’m busting blood vessels trying to get bags packed, people loaded, tiny fingers through unyielding jacket cuffs, what is it she’s thinking about? When I’m barking and ordering and she’s over there, crouched under the couch, happily peering into the cat-fur-laced darkness? As I totter on the edge of throwing one giant mommy tantrum if Someone Doesn’t Start Listening and Get Into the Car Now, where is she? Not the physical body, the miniature linebacker waiving naked princess dolls and blocking me from advancing in whatever direction I immediately need to be moving in. But the interior her, the mind of a person whose main worry is where to put her rock collection or whether she can get some more goldfish crackers.
So I try to imagine what it’s like to be her. What would the equivalent be? The best idea I can come up with is if I woke up in the future, like 100 years from now, in some crazy version of the world where everything had advanced to ultra-technological, uber sleek proportions. A place where people had the Internet built into their heads, where social cues were sent by electronic signals I wasn’t quite able to receive, where tasks and deadlines were measured in milliseconds, not minutes or hours or days. All the buildings would be made out of some intoxicating silvery, liquid-like material. Everyone would function with advanced intelligence and glide around shiny white pods with a purposeful drive, pursuing goals I wasn’t privy to, heading to meetings in floating boardrooms where I wasn’t invited.
But it wouldn’t matter, because I would have my own needs, disjointed from all the advanced futuristic people. The smooth angles and electronic pulsations of this fascinating new world would beckon me, and I would need to spend all my time investigating, listening, watching, running my hands over things. Trying to make the computers work and break into the force fields. Trying to float and zoom like everyone else. And I would be so slow, compared to the future dwellers, yet I would have no idea, because their minds would be rocketing at warp-speed and mine, although improving every day, would still be back in the techno-genetic dark ages of the 2000’s. And they might get annoyed with me, or try to urge me to speed up in their dialect, which would still be English except with hundreds of strange new words that I hadn’t ever heard of.
And I really wouldn’t care. It would be like an acid trip — things would just be too stimulating to care if someone wants me to move along on the track, now. I wouldn’t give a shit about the track. Because the shiny lights and everyday objects would be talking to me in my own private language, seducing my brainwaves, calling my name.