A wrinkle in time

I was with my little son last night, a toddler in his stroller.

I packed him up and we headed out to McDonald’s for a treat.

I went up to the register, placed and received our order, and then pushed the stroller up to a table. I left him strapped in and turned my seat to face him. I opened up the bag with our food in it and extracted a french fry.

He reached for it and started munching. I only gave him one at a time, because mothers of toddlers know this truth:

A typical toddler will take fistfuls of whatever food he loves and shove it into his mouth over and over without bothering pausing for breath.

Now, this was just a little treat for us in a typical day when I was a young mother, taking my little one out for lunch between errands. The only thing is that I am no longer a young mother. I am a midlife mother.

And my son is no longer a toddler. He is a twenty-six year old man.

The thing is, in the dream last night, I was that young mother again, and he was that toddler.

It felt every bit as real to me as if it did just happen yesterday, and not twenty-three years ago.