This morning I am all alone in a house that has become accustomed to many people and lots of different schedules. At the back of my head is the nagging tick that I have forgotten an appointment . . . or need to make an appointment. I had my eyes lasered almost 10 years ago--after almost four decades of astigmatism and extreme short sightedness, I was able to see everything clearly. My lifetime of hating the glasses whose hinges caught my hair and pulled it out; whose bridges slid down my teenager-oily nose; whose lenses needed constant, careful cleaning--REJOICE!--was over.
I didn't let the warning that at some point in the future I would need glasses again penetrate my accessible memory. I think I do that with a lot of information.
Now, at 54, by the end of a day spent working on math, computer, reading--even watching TV--I cannot see anything clearly. I go to bed with a fuzzy headache--that is gone the next morning--but that I know will be back soon.
If I could just spend the day outside: weeding, planting, fussing over new seedlings, scolding the cats for eating my new seedlings, and standing by the pool, dripping, after becoming over-heated and flinging myself into the water to cool off . . . the fuzzy headaches wouldn't bother me.
Nathan saved his money and, when he was 21, got his vision laser corrected. I talked to the doctor who took care of him--could he re-correct my vision? Without even a careful look at my eyes, he answered that, no--he could not.
Megan and Lauren as pre-schoolers
One thing puzzles me about Meg--she has a new home now with huge, high walls--and four years of fabulous creating, rendering, printing, painting--stacked in her closets. Yet, her walls remain barren. When I have my way, the walls of our home are covered--from side to side and top to bottom--with the artwork of Brent, Meg, Lauren, family and friends. A few pieces are historical--the top panel off a seat cushion that my mom's mom made each of her daughters work on. There is a plate from the mixed up set of odds and ends that my father's mom gave to my parents when they were first married: the Correll of the 1950s. One is an immense, framed oil colour that my mother's aunt (I think?) painted of the park by her apartment.
In our family room, I placed photographs of our family, Brent and me, solidly, with nary an inch between any of their frames. My history and the recent history of each of my children--a constant reminder that I had accomplished something good in raising children who had become capable adults with talents and interests and lives of their own. I loved this room's full walls. Brent felt cramped by the clutter surrounding him. After clearing everything off, filling the holes and painting over the evidence of my desecration of the space he preferred--he has declared that nothing will be hung on the walls until we get together and "decide what we want to hang up."
It took me a week and a half to get him to put up a clock.
Back to eyes--Lauren would have hers lasered in a moment. Her contacts (the softest and newest available) give her problems. At one point, I threatened that if I had to hear her complain about how her eyes hurt, then the contacts would go back to the doctor and I would only pay for glasses. I think that they do still bother her--but she keeps it to herself. I think that she keeps many other things to herself--that I wish she would feel free to speak about. Old habits . . .
and Jon (below)