Every morning, I like to take a little scroll through social media while I sip my coffee. It’s harmless fun, unless I allow myself to get pulled into some ridiculous exchange over a topic I have no business discussing, but more often than not, it’s time spent catching up with the lives of some people I wish I could see more often, and some I’m glad I don’t. And, almost every morning, I type a comment under a photo that sounds something like, “I can’t believe how fast the time has gone.”

Time is unstoppable, non-pausable, and non-DVRable. Powerless to slow it down, take a break from it or even request that it treat us with a gentle hand, we are mere bystanders waiting and watching as it ticks by; sometimes in painfully slow seconds, as we await medical test results, the birth of a baby, stare at the clock on nights we can’t fall asleep, or it races by at dizzying rates of speed as that baby passes milestone after milestone resulting in a birthday that seemingly and impossibly arrives out of nowhere.

This year, locked down, experiencing loneliness and a lack of motivation to do much of anything once I’d completed the first two weeks of frenzied doomsday prepping and closet, drawer, basement and garage purges, I felt immobilized. Undetered by my emotional state, time marched on and I’m a year older and look it, a new human joined our family, my husband turned sixty, I spent another year married, the Easter Bunny and Santa came, snow piled up and finally melted, people died, changed jobs, lost jobs, got married, and three members of my family received cancer diagnoses. Robbed of family celebratory gatherings, and even the ability to be with loved ones at their worst times in hospitals, or while undergoing chemotherapy, or saying goodbye at funerals, or just to share a simple lunch with friends, time refused to wait.

It’s been a year of recognizing the harsh reality that the world goes on, the clock keeps ticking, and we are powerless to change it. Milestones come and go, and my inability to do anything about it, left me feeling nostalgic and, at times, regretful. I regret not paying more attention, and being more present. I wish I had been less critical and more grateful. I want some of those bad days back so that I can tell myself not to worry, not to care, not to fret about what I weigh, what I wear or whether the kids get A’s on their fourth grade Egyptian pyramid projects. I want to skip lacrosse practices and go on spring break vacations instead, say yes to having cereal for dinner once in a while, institute no homework nights and say no to all of the AP classes. I long to hold their little hands, rock them to sleep, be the most important person in their lives. Oh, what I’d give for a family dinner; the fighting, complaining, the refusal to help set the table, because that’s where the magic was and I didn’t take the time to notice.

But then, at the oddest moments, I have discovered that if you wait patiently enough, time can be rewound in interesting ways. Stored away in all of us are a treasure trove of memories that with the right trigger can make us feel as if we are reliving past moments in amazing detail.

On August 1, 2015, my eldest son, Zach, got married.

As I dressed, looking at myself in the mirror, trying really hard not to remember the day he was born, his first day of kindergarten, or, as my throat burned, seeing him turn back to wave goodbye as we drove away from him his first day of college, I understood, that in a few short hours, everything would change. His wife would be, as it should be, his first line of comfort; the one he turned to when he was sad or hurt or scared. Intellectually, I understood that and was thrilled for him. I love Meghan and was absolutely sure that she was the best thing that had ever happened to my son. So, as I tried to place eyeliner on sagging, baggy skin that seemed to have developed overnight, I realized what I was experiencing was nostalgia and the grief associated with the passage of time; a commodity so hard to contain, so easy to let slip by. Tonight my baby boy would become someone’s husband.

I had prepared myself for the day by trying to visualize each key moment; my son standing at the altar waiting for his bride, my daughter, Allison, coming down the aisle as a bridesmaid, Luke standing by his brother as best man, the toasts, and of course, my dance with the groom. I had spent hours desensitizing myself to that moment by playing the song we would dance to over and over again. Sobbing in the privacy of my home about 500 times, I was fairly certain I’d completed successful aversion therapy. What I wasn’t prepared for was how absolutely peaceful, joyful and satisfying the day would be. I was thrilled for my son as his happiness was so evident in every moment of that day. And in those moments in movie-like slow motion, I was able to rewind time to July 26, 1986, my own wedding day. In my mother of the groom dress, holding my husband’s hand in that ballroom waiting for my son and his new bride to be introduced, memories of my own wedding circled the room like guests on the dance floor. My son, handsome in his tuxedo, takes his wife’s hand for their first dance, and I hear our band playing our own first dance, recalling how thrilled we were that it sounded just as we’d hoped. I watch my new daughter-in-law head to the floor to dance with her father, as the lyrics of the song my father and I swayed to all of those years ago come to mind, and I am able to hum all of the words. As toasts are given and the cake is cut, my dad and I are alone in the limo on the way to the church talking about the prospects of the NY Giants upcoming season. He tells me I look beautiful and that if I want to change my mind, it is still ok to call it all off. Pieces of my wedding day unfold before me offering glimpses into details I thought I’d long forgotten. I hear Zach begin a toast and I search the room, and there’s my dad, leaning on a chair, smiling as he watches my son give that toast to his parents. I bet he’s thinking, “I can’t believe how fast the time has gone.” I catch his eye. He winks at me and I think, “I can’t believe how fast the time has gone.”

And then, on December 28, 2017, my first grandchild is born.

Feeling like a racehorse penned behind the Kentucky Derby starting gates, the moment I am allowed, I burst into a hospital room where my son stands holding his newborn daughter. With eyes lit up like when he was a kid about to take off down the stairs on Christmas morning, he puts his daughter into my arms and in that moment, we are the two of us, he and I, on a quiet August morning in 1988, as a nurse shows me how to bathe my newborn son. I am stunned by the strength of the memory and as I study my new granddaughter, there he is, in the shape of her eyes, and in her full cheeks. Through her, I have that moment and countless more with him all over again.

And on September 28, 2020, there is another granddaughter, Logan, whose crystal blue eyes and endless smiles evoke peaceful memories of my own Allison; contented, bright eyed and joyful. My daughter-in-law, Meghan, calls Logan the easiest baby and I smile remembering one just like her. I think she might just suck her thumb and, if so, those moments of watching a little girl sleep, thumb in mouth contented will be magical.

The little family moves into a new house and, as expected, chaos ensues. Boxes cover every inch of the beautiful new hardwood floors, knickknacks and pictures are strewn about jostling for permanent homes, the loathsome job of switching the garbage, cable, electric, gas and internet to a new address feels like a task equal to summiting Everest. And Meghan stands alone and dumbfounded staring at empty kitchen cabinets, trying to decide where to place the cookie sheets, the crock pot, blender and waffle maker. They are rendered motionless by the sheer effort it takes to turn empty space into a home. I smile remembering the patterned rolls of contact paper covering my new counters, my list of accounts to change and calls to make feeling endless. How many times can one repeat the same address? I change the silverware drawer three times, move my kids’ beds in their rooms over and over to get the right feel. The TV doesn’t fit where we thought it would, our favorite and probably only decent picture won’t work in the new family room, and the queen sized mattress won’t fit up the stairs. The hot water heater literally dies the first night we are in the house and I have three kids frozen in a bathtub. I smile. “Meg, how about if I take Cora to my house for a while so you guys can get some stuff organized.” I suggest. My son looks up at me as if a genie just granted him a wish. “YES.” And, so off we go, Cora and I, headed out of the mess as I remember my own mom showing up in the middle of armageddon with the same offer. I wonder what memories our experience elicited for her that day?

Cora and I have our typical day full of fun and are grateful for the warm temperatures and sunshine. When her uncle, Luke, and his girlfriend stop by for a socially distant (ugh) outside visit, I wonder if he recognizes himself in her at all? Will he see her “up for anything” spirit and that her astonishing ability to never run out of steam feels exactly like spending a day with him at that age? Will he know what a gift that is to me; to witness her build a tower of blocks, and then glancing at me with a smirk and the gentlest evil eye, knock it over laughing with glee? After he and his girlfriend leave, Cora and I head inside because she wants to play in “her” room. Starting up the stairs, I know exactly where she’s headed. She heads to Aunt Allison’s room, and there, on display like a shrine, is the “Beauty and the Beast” Belle dress that Allison wore almost everyday to preschool. Cora has also decided that she adores this dress even in its excessively worn state. She ignores the rip on the bodice seam, the slight tear of one of the ribbons, and the overall faded appearance. On it goes, and we head back downstairs. While I’ve told her that it’s Allison’s “Belle” dress, I’m not sure she understands what that means. I ask her if she’s ever seen “Beauty and the Beast,” and when she says no, I head right for my laptop. I tell her I want to show her something and we cozy up on the couch. Cora settles onto my lap and with one click, there are Belle, the Beast, and the DRESS! Cora’s eyes grow wide, and the title song begins to play. Characters I haven’t seen in almost twenty six years come to life:

"Ever just the same, ever a surprise

Ever as before, ever just as sure

As the sun will rise

Certain as the sun, rising in the east,

Tale as old as time...''

In 1998, I probably watched this scene enough to last me twenty-six years, but the minute the video starts and the music begins, Cora is three year old Allison, smiling and giggling; enchanted, and as Belle and the Beast begin to dance, I get teary. I let the memories and the tears come as there is both a sense of loss; of time gone by too quickly, and profound joy and deep gratitude for the rewinding of time. Cora turns around and smiles. “Can we watch it again, Nana?”

I can’t believe how fast the time has gone.