Lost my Focus.
I woke up Saturday morning a little bleary-eyed. My two-year old had come bounding into my bed, all sunshine and smiles and happiness for a little before 8am. She always wakes up on the right side of the day, has always been a morning person. No surprise as she clamored about, bouncing and chattering away as she is wont to do. After successfully managing to divert her attention to her daddy's hideout in the bathroom, I rolled over and feigned sleep again as she slid down my bed and pitter-pattered her way to greet him.
His morning greeting to me for doing this was not so polite. "Hey babe, are these your old glasses?" he asked me through the half-cracked door. I knew they were not, that my old pair was buried under magazines and pajamas in my nightstand. "No," I groaned,"Gretchen, bring me back my glasses."
She smiled again when she handed them to me, sans one bow. My husband had the other and proceeded to tell me that without a band of unattractive duct tape, they were beyond repair. I rubbed my blurry and nearly blind eyes and hobbled out of bed. Somewhere in my bathroom was a box of contacts, hopefully not expired and with at least two new lenses in it. He found it for me and for the first time in two years I put them in, blinking fifty times and finding my vision and my spatial orientation at odds.
The rest of the day felt queer, catching myself in the mirror and being surprised by the stranger there. It seems silly how I identified with having 'four-eyes,' and even more so did my family. My older daughters wanted to know how I could see and thought it was cool that I could take out my lenses and put them back in, prompting much eyeball touching and giggling on their parts. Even my husband caught himself staring strangely at me and making comments about how different I look now, without glasses, and how he forgot that I used to wear only contacts when we first met. I think though that what he and I both saw, and were polite enough not to comment aloud about, is that I look different now as a mom and grown woman, replete with baggy undereyes and wrinkles where there were none years ago.
I went to bed being able to see, these contacts supposedly being able to be worn for a full month, they are being tested head on from day one. That's why when that same two-year old toddled back to my bed shortly before midnight on Saturday, I was able to see her quite clearly though I already heard her discomfort. She settled back on my pillow, legs drawn up and plaintive cries telling us how awful she felt. I figured she was constipated, stuck in potty-training mode even if her little body isn't ready, and not having had a great poop for the day, her tummy started rumbling and she seemed to be ramping up the tears.
I pulled her closer to me, head on my shoulder and my arm wrapped around her side, trying to decide if I wanted to rub her belly when she turned her head and projectile vomited all down my arm. To be fair, she didn't know it was coming and as the ooze that was her bedtime snack of fruit and yogurt parfait slid slowly and hotly down my arm, I did my best to continue to snuggle her as she wretched a good three times. When I sat up to assess the hot mess that was my bed, I found the view looked like a massacre. Strawberries and blueberries like bloody guts seeped through my bedspread, pillow, sheet and waterproof mattress cover as I tried to take a deep breath and gain control of the situation. Being a nurse, vomit doesn't get to me, nor does bloody guts on my sheets...and being a mom, a sick little girl warrants the highest quality care...but for some reason, seeing and hearing her wretch and then drench me in another wave of pure puke, did me in. I called for the daddy reinforcement (who was already starting the bathtub) to come and take her as I was unglamorously gagging in the background.
We climbed into the tub together and rinsed every little berry burst off our skin and then wrapped up in a big fleecy robe before making our way to the guest bedroom. Daddy in tow with a full load of laundry, we snuggled in and I found myself hoping she had released every ounce of stomach contents upstairs so we could relax into an uneventful night. As the clock crept closer to one am, though, my sweet little girl turned fruit-spewing monster again, releasing another torrent all over the guest bed. Defeated and without another bed to sleep in, I toweled her off and tucked us both in on the couch, attempting to prop her upright and keeping a bucket at the ready, in case there was another bout I could catch.
To say the rest of the night was uneventful would be lame, as I was up every half hour, peeking an eye on her as she rolled over, and marvelling at her positioning when I once caught her with her arms thrown over her head as she balanced perpendicular on the cushion, legs angled up over the back of the couch. When she woke a mere six hours later, again all sunshine and smiles and clamoring over me, I can't say I was equally amused. Lucky for me, daddy was on top of his game and I earned another hour nap in my big girl bed, tucked in on clean sheets over a stain-treated mattress.
I stayed home on-call on Sunday, a mix of blessing and that same luck I think, that I appreciated all the more in the aftermath of my Saturday night. Might seem silly to some but I tell you, we did a dance when that little girl pooped twice by the end of Sunday, and I didn't complain once when it was in a diaper and not in the toilet. At the end of the night, we read Prudence's potty and glossed over the part where she made "wee-wee and poo-poo, but not exactly in the toilet." We'll save those lessons for another day.
I went to bed again with my contacts in and woke up a little more refreshed today. I can see clearly first thing when I open my eyes and I'm getting used to that little by little. I can look out the window across my room and notice the wind rustling the leaves in the trees and a cloud or two as they float by. I can also see the weight on my scale without squinting, maybe not one of the benefits of the new look since I can't pretend to be blind to the spare ounces after the decimal point. And I definitely see those baggy eyes and wrinkles that I mentioned to my husband on Sunday, hoping he'd tell me that I was overtired and not old. He did a good job bull-shitting through his answer, giving me credit for the creases from all the kids and the bags from too many sleepless nights. I found my makeup this morning though, and you better believe we all noticed today how much better I looked with a coat of mascara on these naked eyes. I have twenty-eight more days (give or take) on this pair and I'm not sure what I'll do with that time. Maybe I'll find some superglue and fashionable tape to makeshift my old face back together. Or I could change these things out for a new pair, count up how many are in the box to see how far I'll get...might mean I need to invest in a new beauty routine if I'm going to wake up every morning really seeing how I am.
His morning greeting to me for doing this was not so polite. "Hey babe, are these your old glasses?" he asked me through the half-cracked door. I knew they were not, that my old pair was buried under magazines and pajamas in my nightstand. "No," I groaned,"Gretchen, bring me back my glasses."
She smiled again when she handed them to me, sans one bow. My husband had the other and proceeded to tell me that without a band of unattractive duct tape, they were beyond repair. I rubbed my blurry and nearly blind eyes and hobbled out of bed. Somewhere in my bathroom was a box of contacts, hopefully not expired and with at least two new lenses in it. He found it for me and for the first time in two years I put them in, blinking fifty times and finding my vision and my spatial orientation at odds.
The rest of the day felt queer, catching myself in the mirror and being surprised by the stranger there. It seems silly how I identified with having 'four-eyes,' and even more so did my family. My older daughters wanted to know how I could see and thought it was cool that I could take out my lenses and put them back in, prompting much eyeball touching and giggling on their parts. Even my husband caught himself staring strangely at me and making comments about how different I look now, without glasses, and how he forgot that I used to wear only contacts when we first met. I think though that what he and I both saw, and were polite enough not to comment aloud about, is that I look different now as a mom and grown woman, replete with baggy undereyes and wrinkles where there were none years ago.
I went to bed being able to see, these contacts supposedly being able to be worn for a full month, they are being tested head on from day one. That's why when that same two-year old toddled back to my bed shortly before midnight on Saturday, I was able to see her quite clearly though I already heard her discomfort. She settled back on my pillow, legs drawn up and plaintive cries telling us how awful she felt. I figured she was constipated, stuck in potty-training mode even if her little body isn't ready, and not having had a great poop for the day, her tummy started rumbling and she seemed to be ramping up the tears.
I pulled her closer to me, head on my shoulder and my arm wrapped around her side, trying to decide if I wanted to rub her belly when she turned her head and projectile vomited all down my arm. To be fair, she didn't know it was coming and as the ooze that was her bedtime snack of fruit and yogurt parfait slid slowly and hotly down my arm, I did my best to continue to snuggle her as she wretched a good three times. When I sat up to assess the hot mess that was my bed, I found the view looked like a massacre. Strawberries and blueberries like bloody guts seeped through my bedspread, pillow, sheet and waterproof mattress cover as I tried to take a deep breath and gain control of the situation. Being a nurse, vomit doesn't get to me, nor does bloody guts on my sheets...and being a mom, a sick little girl warrants the highest quality care...but for some reason, seeing and hearing her wretch and then drench me in another wave of pure puke, did me in. I called for the daddy reinforcement (who was already starting the bathtub) to come and take her as I was unglamorously gagging in the background.
We climbed into the tub together and rinsed every little berry burst off our skin and then wrapped up in a big fleecy robe before making our way to the guest bedroom. Daddy in tow with a full load of laundry, we snuggled in and I found myself hoping she had released every ounce of stomach contents upstairs so we could relax into an uneventful night. As the clock crept closer to one am, though, my sweet little girl turned fruit-spewing monster again, releasing another torrent all over the guest bed. Defeated and without another bed to sleep in, I toweled her off and tucked us both in on the couch, attempting to prop her upright and keeping a bucket at the ready, in case there was another bout I could catch.
To say the rest of the night was uneventful would be lame, as I was up every half hour, peeking an eye on her as she rolled over, and marvelling at her positioning when I once caught her with her arms thrown over her head as she balanced perpendicular on the cushion, legs angled up over the back of the couch. When she woke a mere six hours later, again all sunshine and smiles and clamoring over me, I can't say I was equally amused. Lucky for me, daddy was on top of his game and I earned another hour nap in my big girl bed, tucked in on clean sheets over a stain-treated mattress.
I stayed home on-call on Sunday, a mix of blessing and that same luck I think, that I appreciated all the more in the aftermath of my Saturday night. Might seem silly to some but I tell you, we did a dance when that little girl pooped twice by the end of Sunday, and I didn't complain once when it was in a diaper and not in the toilet. At the end of the night, we read Prudence's potty and glossed over the part where she made "wee-wee and poo-poo, but not exactly in the toilet." We'll save those lessons for another day.
I went to bed again with my contacts in and woke up a little more refreshed today. I can see clearly first thing when I open my eyes and I'm getting used to that little by little. I can look out the window across my room and notice the wind rustling the leaves in the trees and a cloud or two as they float by. I can also see the weight on my scale without squinting, maybe not one of the benefits of the new look since I can't pretend to be blind to the spare ounces after the decimal point. And I definitely see those baggy eyes and wrinkles that I mentioned to my husband on Sunday, hoping he'd tell me that I was overtired and not old. He did a good job bull-shitting through his answer, giving me credit for the creases from all the kids and the bags from too many sleepless nights. I found my makeup this morning though, and you better believe we all noticed today how much better I looked with a coat of mascara on these naked eyes. I have twenty-eight more days (give or take) on this pair and I'm not sure what I'll do with that time. Maybe I'll find some superglue and fashionable tape to makeshift my old face back together. Or I could change these things out for a new pair, count up how many are in the box to see how far I'll get...might mean I need to invest in a new beauty routine if I'm going to wake up every morning really seeing how I am.
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| 8years ago or so, a little more glamorous then than now. |
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