Undo

Isn’t it about time for the capabilities of computer technology to cross over into reality? Take the search function: I want that for everyday conversation. While my brain is quite able to recall that a great quote or story exists, I know that it never seems to reproduce the exact wording. I’ve learned that my best guess is usually pretty poor. When I’m writing, I might have the leisure to search for the quote; but again, my brain may have no idea where I actually saw it in the first place. “It was on a web page with a blue background” – frequently the best it can manage – is a bit lacking in useful details. I want those computer designer people to offer me a way to search all the winding caverns of my mind for those details that are shoved in there somewhere. I know the information is there because a couple hours (or days) later, when the moment is long gone, my brain will rush up with tail wagging and drop the exact location at my feet.

I’d be happy with many other useful computer commands – spell check, cut and paste, find all – but the one I want most is “undo.”

Trial and error is my way of life. Sure, I do research and development in engineering as a career, so I’m trained in that sort of thing, but I’ve been into trial and error since I was young. When I was old enough to wander around Six Flags by myself, I developed my own strategy for getting around the park. Instead of holding a map and trying to match it to the park, I preferred to rush from one “You are here” sign to the next. If I went in the wrong direction, I could tell right away and correct my course. Given a choice, I’ll think while I’m acting rather than before. I don’t mind correcting my course on the way… but I want to be in motion.

The biggest problem with trial and error is that whole error part. Big bad errors usually don’t have an “undo” ability in the real world.

On Friday night, we ate dinner out. I didn’t notice the specials of the day – in particular a chicken with spicy tomatilla sauce – until after I’d placed my order. If I’d had a free “undo” function, I would have used it then. Rewind a couple minutes and order again. “Undo” would be nice for trivial mistakes like that.

Even with a little bit of a cost, “undo” would be awesome for those moments where I misjudged someone’s thoughts or didn’t take the time to think my words though and saw, even as the words were emerging, that I was offending my audience. Words of apology are more of a bandage than a miraculous healing. It would be so much better to make the moment never to have happened. For a low price, I’d use an “undo” to clear up those mistakes.

There are moments, though, when I would give anything to have an “undo.”

“Is anyone down here?” T called from the top of the stairs. “No, I don’t see anyone,” I replied from the basement. I should’ve known there was a problem when she said, “Daddy, stop being silly.” If I hadn’t been moving laundry from the washing machine, standing with my back to her, I would’ve seen her red eyes and thin lips. But I didn’t until after she continued: “Daddy, I don’t know where my DS is!”

Each year, Santa wraps each child’s big present in gold paper. You know when you’re opening your special present. T’s DS was her gold present this year. For her birthday, just this past Tuesday, she’d gotten a new game for it, a charger, and a cute little blue case. She’d been taking pictures with the DS since the hour it arrived, but we had just figured out how to get them onto the computer. She takes her Brain Age test daily, and has spent a lot of time personalizing everything. When her brothers ignore her too much, she’s as likely to go play DS as read, these days. And because her DS is important to her, she likes to carry it wherever she goes.

Saturday morning, T brought her DS to a fundraiser breakfast at Applebee’s. When we had all gone to load plates with pancakes, I had covered her DS case with her coat, leaving just a corner sticking out. It seemed prudent. That turned out to be the last time anyone saw it.

Right after T announced the loss, my wife got the phone book out, but T and I got in the car instead, coatless despite the cold. Thinking while acting is what I do. We drove. When we were nearly to Applebee’s, I had T call home. No success with Mommy’s phone calls. We’d have to find the DS in person, if we were going to find it at all.

The Applebee’s people were great, and the table we’d been at was unoccupied. T crawled all over the floor in her search, but there was nowhere for her DS to be hidden. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t look at T’s eyes as she started sobbing, so I hugged her to me and tried not to choke as I gave the Applebee’s employee our phone number and a description. T calmed enough to tell him her user name and the message and every detail of her loved DS. The guy suggested we contact the fundraiser organizers; they might have picked it up. “I’ve seen it happen before…”

I carried T out to the van… I’m not sure she could see clearly.

As we started pulling away, T cried, “I forgot to tell him that the box around my user name is pink. It’s a pink box!” Maybe if she described every detail perfectly, it would reappear.

I know that lost game systems don’t reappear. Once they are gone… well, I couldn’t tell T that no amount of longing makes them return. And I blamed myself, partly for covering the DS instead of picking it up, partly for not making her leave it in the van.

I so would’ve pressed “undo” then. I would have clicked back and back even if the price was years off my own life.

Back home, we all sat on the floor and T cried. I couldn’t even speak, there was nothing useful to say. I just sat with her.

The story ends well: after some phone calls, we found T’s DS in the hands of the fundraiser people. This evening we picked it up; it has returned. T has learned a lesson about responsibility, too, without consequences too painful to bear. She’s wiser now, having experienced loss. I would have spared her all of those lessons if I could’ve, which probably wouldn’t be in her best interest.

If we could “undo” too many events, I suppose that personal responsibility would suffer. It would probably be worse than the video game “restart that game” mentality. But to the good, it would encourage creativity, especially of the trial-and-error variety. I’ve decided that life should have a training mode, where we can learn our limits, develop responsibility, and suffer only token pain. What we all need is a training mode.

I just realized that my role, as T’s parent, is to shelter her, partly, from this unforgiving reality where we live. I need to be the computer designer guy. Imperfect as I am, I’m her “undo” function, to the best of my ability.