Mommy Ever After » little four eyes

The little feather that could.

mommyeverafter — Tue, 02 Dec 2014 19:22:29 +0000

This morning was a morning like most others.

We watched an episode of My Little Pony, found the “Tuesday” underwear from my daughter’s drawer, hurried her off to school, as my son and I stayed in our pajamas.

My son and I snuggled up in bed for a good two hours and napped together, as I fell asleep to the rhythmic sounds of his breathing.

And then we went to the eye doctor. And we got some unexpected news. My son had to get glasses at 11 months to correct his farsightedness, just like his sister before him. He also had to have a minor surgical procedure to unblock a clogged tear duct, and I feel so fortunate to say that it went very well.

Today, we learned that my son’s eye crossing is not exactly like my daughters, and my sister’s before her, and my mother before her ; he not only is extremely farsighted, but he also has a weak eye muscle. This will require a surgery, and it is a much more extensive surgery than the little tear duct probing. And my heart stopped beating.

Let me stop right now.

I realize that my son is getting eye surgery.

In the scheme of life, this is a blip. It is a slightly large blip, but I recognize that parents, every hour, are given far worse news about far worse procedures and prognoses, so please do not think for one second that I do not have perspective. I do. I send all of the love I can muster to those parents and those children and those families.

But I also have the knowledge that my son will have to go under general anesthesia, be intubated, and face some pain afterwards. And, this surgery will not do anything to correct his vision.

The eye doctor said, “Boy, this one can’t catch a break, can he?” and I replied with, “None of us can this year!”

And I was thinking about my son’s first year;

He had a mother who went a little crazy and then was later hospitalized. He has been to the Emergency Room FIVE times now: once in utero, twice for RSV (which lead him to a most depressing Christmas week stay in the children’s ward of the local hospital), once for Carbon Monoxide poisoning and then, finally, for slicing his wrist on my mirrored coffee table, requiring seven stitches. He hasn’t had it so easy.

But just like the realization that I had a week ago, when it occurred to me that my sweet son is the best thing to have ever happened to me,

I had another epiphany today.

He is my strength symbol.

Right before we left for the Ophthalmologist, I found this tiny, stray feather stuck to the inside of the wrist of my sweater.

It gave me the feeling that I always get when I see feathers, which is that I can be strong and that there are people watching over us to guide and protect us, even through the darkest of days.

And then I got this crappy news from the eye doctor and I looked back down at my feather and tried to figure it out. What was it telling me?

And I got it:

My son is my strength symbol.

He has shown me bravery, fortitude and resilience like nothing I have ever seen.

He has had a tough year with some tough circumstances, and wakes up with a smile on his face every single day, showing seven little teeth, gapped and perfect.

So, my tiny feather, you are my inspiration. You show me what it means to be courageous. You have faced so much in such a short time and I am so, so, proud to be your mother.

You are my little hero.

And we will just keep chugging along.

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The time out chair.

mommyeverafter — Thu, 13 Nov 2014 01:22:39 +0000

This week started out a little rough.
I was out of sorts, you could say. Perhaps it’s the time of year, or something chemical, but I have found my anxiety to be at an unusually high level.
For instance, on Monday, my husband left his phone in the car when he went up to his office. I texted him to say hi. No answer. Then I sent a “hey, you there?” type of message. No reply. And in the 30 minutes that followed, I played out every bad scenario possible in my head as to why he wasn’t answering my texts or surreptitious call made during the baby’s nap time.
I would say that I overreacted.
I can’t help it. I truly can not help it. That is the hard part.
But today was better. Today the weather was beautiful.
The baby and I had some time to kill before picking up my daughter from school and we were already out so I decided to pull over and grab an outdoor seat at a quaint cafe. I took my little beau on a date.
We sat together, in the sunshine, and I sang “If you’re happy and you know it” softly and he danced along to me and we both smiled so that we were beaming. Like the sun.

And I felt happy.
And then I saw a man at a table 20 feet away point to my son, as he said to his wife, “Look! That baby has glasses!”,
prompting her to turn around and stare at us.
The old me would not have had this.
I still consider this post about my daughter one of the most important pieces I have written.
And the thing is, my son gets pointed out wherever he goes. Up until today, we had been missing his glasses since 1pm last Thursday. (By the way, if you happen to find them, I am giving you a 10,000 cookie reward.) We were able to get new lenses put into my daughter’s old frames (they may or may not be slightly pink) and my heart sang as I saw him looking around at the world, laughing at the leaves blowing. He could see again.
But yesterday, when my son wasn’t wearing his glasses and we were eating lunch outside, we were stopped literally five times by people who were commenting on how cute he is, and, mostly, his red hair. We have canned responses when people ask where it comes from. Just like I did when people asked me how I knew my daughter needed glasses four years ago.
So now I have the perspective that people can point out my children in a kind way that is generous of spirit.
However,
However,
This man literally pointed and stared and exclaimed.
And I thought of getting up and going over to him. I thought of telling him things that I am not proud of having thought.
But I sat there, in my time out chair, keeping calm, and continuing to enjoy my son’s toothy little smile.
When the couple got up to leave they came over to us.
“He’s so cute,” the man said.
“Thank you.” I smiled with my mouth closed.
“I have a ten month old grandson who also likes to pull of glasses,” he continued.
“He doesn’t have glasses, but he likes to pull off mine.”
Thanks for that tidbit, sir.
But they went on to compliment my child’s looks and behavior. And sadly, I think that if my son had my brown hair and was not bespectacled that interaction never would have happened. They wouldn’t have stopped to notice his incredible crystal blue eyes, or the prominent cleft chin or his enormous (ly adorable) size. And just like I felt with my daughter, I don’t want my son to be singled out because of a physical attribute, or because he has eyes that require a high prescription lens.
But what today taught me is that I have grown.
I didn’t get fired up.
I did not get hurt.
What I did do was take a moment, a detour out of my day, to stop at a cafe and sit outside with my son for 10 minutes,
something that I would have never been able to do at this time last year.
And that is progress.
And for that, I think my time in the time out chair is up.

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I mean, why settle for four eyes

mommyeverafter — Tue, 14 Oct 2014 17:45:55 +0000

when you can have eight?
So, yeah,
this morning we found out that our baby boy, 10 days shy of his first birthday, will need glasses,
just like his big sister.
Evidently, though, he is an overachiever, because whereas she didn’t need them until she was 13 months old, he is getting them before 12. Atta boy!
And though he isn’t quite as farsighted as his sister, he will need to undergo a surgical procedure to scope a blocked tear duct in his right eye. So there’s that, too.
Part of me is brought right back to three and a half years ago, when I felt so discouraged by my daughter’s diagnosis. But this time it didn’t come as a surprise to me; I saw his eye turning in and I knew. I just knew.
And I am still seeing things through my own four eyes, except mine are metaphorical, as I only wear my recently prescribed glasses about 25% of the time,
but I am seeing them differently, because now I have perspective.
There’s still my scared eye. The eye that worries about the impact this will have on his self confidence, his athletic ease, the hindrances he might face and the insults he might endure. But now I know that they make goggles with prescriptions, and that my daughter was able to swim underwater this summer, farsightedness be damned. I know that her very best friend wears a pair of lense-less glasses to school every day, claiming to need them (he says that without them, she “looks like a necklace” to him…which is just about the cutest thing ever) when we really know he is just trying to be like his oldest and dearest girlfriend.
Then there is my shallow eye. This eye sees my son, strong and handsome, with an angelic face, and strong cleft chin, and worries about the glasses masking these features. He has beautiful crystal blue eyes. I don’t like the idea of having them hidden.
And yes, I still have my ashamed eye. The eye who really wants to say (and pardon my language here, but) “who gives a shit? They are glasses. Who cares if he is deemed different. We celebrate differences here in these parts.
But, finally there is, as there was, my grateful eye. As I wrote three years ago, “this is the eye that sees, so vividly, how lucky we are. We have a problem that has a solution. So what. They’re glasses.” We have a great doctor, and wonderful friends, and the resources to buy him whatever glasses we choose. He has a tiny problem. His problem has a cure. For that, I feel so very blessed.
So now all four of us have four eyes;
My husband’s for moderate nearsightedness,
mine for insight,
and my children, for strabismus associated with extreme farsightedness.
And remember that shallow eye up there? That eye thinks that it will be pretty darn cute to have two adorable little kids in matching glasses. I think the cuteness factor of kids with glasses increases exponentially with each additionally glasses-clad-child. I’m sure that I read that statistic somewhere.
So, just as I did with my daughter years ago,
I cuddled up with my son this afternoon, after lunch. He had completely dirtied his shirt after manhandling an avocado, so I held him, kissing his bare chest, and telling him that he would not be bespectacled,
but rather, to be spectacular.
And we slow danced in the living room, four ears listening to music,
two hearts beating together
and four eyes
taking in the changing world around us,
a world that is only going to get more beautiful.

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Today, I cried. In Ikea.

mommyeverafter — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 11:40:36 +0000

Originally Published on Little Four Eyes
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve grown to love my baby girl’s glasses.
They help her, they are a tangible solution to a small problem, and they look so darn cute.
I’ve learned to love them so much, that I have stopped thinking about them.
I have accepted them.
They have become a wonderful, valuable, treasured part of my wonderful, valuable treasure.
And then, today happened.
It all started innocently enough. I went to Ikea with my mom and sister (a fellow life-long member of the glasses tribe). We joked our way through the rows of Hemnes and Karslbad and were having a great time until I came upon a family who was hovered by the Klippan sofa display.
It happened in slow motion.
As I saw the six year old boy spot my daughter,
who was sitting peacefully in her stroller, munching on a soft prezel,
I noticed his hand start to raise as his index finger jutted towards her.
“NOOOOOOOOOO!” I wanted to scream, as my ears filled up with the noise of my pounding heart.
“Look at that baaaaaaaaby!”
He shouted, as he pointed, wagging his finger at my daughter’s heart shaped face.
“She has glassssssses! Why does that baaaaaaby have glasses?”
And he did not say it in a nice way.
In fact, he said it in about as mean of a way as someone who wears Spongebob Underpants could muster.
His mother scolded him, and commented how he was being “rude” (Okay, mom. I’m sure he feels terrible about his “rudeness”.) and how he was wrong, that she actually is so cute in her glasses.
Yes. Just like that.
And then my heart shattered in 80 grillion pieces.
I did not say a word. I did not scold the little boy. I did not preach to him. I did not “kill them with kindness”.
I, instead, sought refuge in my sister’s arms,
somewhere between the Kivik chairs and my own personal hell.
And I cried.
My heart ached for my little girl.
This was the first time that she was teased for wearing glasses.
And she had no idea. She just sat eating her pretzel, happy and smiling.
And that made it infinitely worse.
But, my sister, being the wise baby sibling that she is, talked me through it.
She has been wearing glasses since she was two, and she assured me that she has never felt ashamed or bad or silly because of her glasses. Never. Not once. She told me that they are an accessory. That she loved her specs.
And I had no choice but to believe her.
That is what survival is all about.
And so,
I went on with my Ikexcursion, and as I pushed my happy little glasses wearing girl, my heart began to piece itself back together.
And I realized that I will never be able to control what people think or say or how they act. All I can do is to take care of my daughter’s needs, both physical and emotional, in the best way I can.
When she is old enough,
I will not tell her, “Yes, you are bespectacled.”
I will tell her “You are you. You are Bespectacular.”
So when we reached the cash registers
and the nice, young lady behind us made goo-goo eyes at my little girl, I held my breath, but knew I could handle whatever comment she threw our way.
She told me that she loooooved my daughter’s glasses.
I told her that I love them too.
And I do.
So, with dried tears and a full heart, I bought us $1 cone of frozen yogurt. Always be spectacular, I say,
and always treat your little girl to dessert.

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Rose Colored Glasses

mommyeverafter — Fri, 03 Jun 2011 19:33:57 +0000

originally published on Little Four Eyes
It has been 10 days since my sweet girl got her glasses.
On day 1, I hated them.
She looks different. People are looking at her differently. She’s not used to them. Are they uncomfortable? Is she still the same little girl? Of course she’s the same little girl. What is wrong with me? How could I be so shallow? So vain? Will I always feel this way?
These questions,
these fears,
played for me, over and over again,
like a montage in my mind.
In the battle between me and my daughter’s farsightedness,
the glasses were totally kicking my behind.
On Day 2, I decided to take my daughter out for the first time.
Please know that I recognize how silly this sounds. I am a devout believer of inner-beauty and unconditional love, and an advocate for compassion and tolerance. I knew how much worse it could be. Yet, I hated them, still.
And so, I took my little girl to a local farmer’s market. I felt vulnerable. For my girl. For us.
I was scared.
The first person who greeted us smiled at my daughter. “She’s soooo cute!” the woman said.
“HER GLASSES ARE NEW. THIS IS HER FIRST DAY WEARING THEM.” The words spewed from my mouth, so quickly I had scarcely taken a breath. My defenses were up, my sword was drawn, and I would make sure to strike first, before anyone could dare comment on my daughter and her eyewear. I was so scared that people would look at my beautiful little girl and only see glasses. So, in true crazy-person fashion, I headed them off at the pass.
The next person to approach us was a kind, older lady who squealed when she took in the sight of my little one.
“Ooh! My, look at her cute shoes!”
I exhaled. I bit my tongue. Don’t mention her glasses. Don’t make any sudden movements.
“Thank you.” I choked out between my smile of gritted teeth.
“And those glasses! They are adorable!”
I am not sure if was able to muster a thank you before pivoting and scurrying off without my broccoli rabe.
Why was this so hard for me? What was my problem?
And then, around day 3, something amazing started to happen. My little girl began to keep her glasses on all day long. She began to whine or whimper when they would come off. And she started to study her books with a new intensity. She started to say new words. She started doing things she’d never done before. So many things.
And she started to look like herself again to me.
She was my little girl again. A new version, yes, but certainly a better one. She began to see world around her with new clarity. She could, for the first time, see blades of grass and the tiny spots on a ladybug; she could see my face, beaming with pride.
So now, on day 10, I love her glasses. I appreciate them.
And yes, every time we go out, we get at least a comment or two.
“She looks so precious!”
“I didn’t know they made glasses that small!”
“My daughter also needed glasses as a baby.”
And, the ever-popular,
“How did you know she needed them?”
That one I have fun with.
“Oh, she started to read her sonnets in Spanish instead of French, so we knew her eyes weren’t working properly.”
Or something like that.
So yes, my fears have come true in some ways, because the fact that she wears glasses has become a thing.
But, you know what? Everyone has a thing.
And as far as things go, I’ll take this one any day of the week.
So, my daughter isn’t the only one seeing the world differently right now.
When I look at her little face, I am reminded to always lead with love,
to give compassion to everyone I meet,
to stop making assumptions based on how things look
and to always,
always,
look on the bright side and stay positive.
Because you know what? Life is much better with a glass(es) have full.
In fact, you just might say that everything looks
rather rosey.

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