If only.

Last week, I was annoyed when my MacBook wouldn't start up.  I was grumpy about having to visit an Apple Store for repairs because it was a strangely balmy day in February, and I didn't want to miss any outside time.  (I'm a Stay-at-Home-Mom, but I'd really rather not Stay-Inside-My-Home for frigid days on end.  Spring, where are you?  Serenity now!)  And then I was sweating and on the verge of my own meltdown in the expansive, expensive new addition of the Natick Mall (excuse me, the Natick Collection) while Marley threw the tantrum of all tantrums, her screams echoing up to the vaulted ceilings while other shoppers first gave me sympathetic smiles and then pretty much looked at the two of us in disgust.  Once in the store, I learned that my hard drive was gone.  I began weeping at the Genius Bar.

People, back up your computer's files.  I lost all the essays, short stories, and papers I wrote to get my Master's in Writing at UNH.  And even worse, I lost a year and a-half's worth of photos and short movies.  Of my children.  I mostly held it together until I got to my car, and then I called Todd and sobbed.  I felt like an idiot.  Pretty much everybody knows to back up their computers.  I wonder, though, how many people do on a regular basis.  And just to give you that extra motivation, let me tell you that I've been looking into data retrieval services and have been quoted figures ranging from $500 - $2500.  Every so often I think about the pictures and movies I lost and get nauseous.  Last summer, we spent several blissful days at Sesame Place.  Gone!  Marley's first ever day of school.  Gone!  And oh yeah, Rudy in the hospital, coming home, basically, her first three months of life.  Gone. 

Over the past few days, I've been re-customizing my computer because it's got a new hard drive.  I've had time to do this because it's February vacation, and Todd's got the week off.  He's got his own projects going, too: molding on the top and bottom of the entertainment center he built, thresholds under the bathroom and basement doors, and soon, either a squat bookcase for the living room or a wide, low table for Marley's dollhouse.  Todd is like my own personal Norm Abram, although Todd probably spends much more time swearing and muttering things like, "Why?  Why?  Why did I do it that way?" when he's in the middle of something.  And Norm's wife probably doesn't multiply his estimated project finish times by three.

Yesterday, Marley was literally on top of Todd while he was cutting and fitting the threshold pieces.  She pulled her tools out of the playroom and began hammering, sawing, and measuring the wall.  She crawled on Todd's back, and she curled up in the space beside his knees.  At one point, Todd noticed that she had wedged her yellow fairy wand into her toolbelt.  "Pretty smart, Bean," he said.  "This is really the only tool you need."

I wish I had one of those wands.  I would wave it in the morning when I'm trying to get Bean to school on time.  I would wave it and become instantly presentable before leaving the house.  I would wave it: before a tantrum can get going; when I have no idea what's for dinner; if Rudy's beside herself and I don't know why; and as Todd lugs our pile of bills to the kitchen table.

I would wave that wand and instantly be four weeks into a solid exercise regimen.  It would be warm enough to open all of my windows, and the sun would be shining.  Of course, I would also wave that wand, very, very emphatically over my broken hard drive.