We’ve Got Weed…No, Not That Kind

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We are “those neighbors.” You know the ones, every neighborhood has them. (Hopefully after this exposè there will be several more.) We are the neighbors with the yard resembling a botanical experiment gone awry amongst a neighborhood of golf course caliber lawns. While our neighbors sport lush green carpets, we crazy-ass hippies are displaying a meadow of fuzzy dandelions and boisterous weeds and we do it without apology. Sorry neighbors, we’ve got weeds but we have our reasons.

For a few weeks every spring our yard resembles an abandoned homestead and we love it. Dog walkers with their looks of disdain and fellow residents of our development who refer to our home as a cautionary tale, can suck it. The dandelions are staying and we have scientific evidence to support our stance. (We’re nerds and as in the case of most nerds we fight with facts because upper arm development is lacking.)

This is the Turk’s first real yard. He grew up an apartment dweller in the concrete jungles of Turkey so the only yard he knew was a postage stamp size piece of grass at his family’s summer house. In his city, people walk blocks to enjoy tiny plots of grass at a nearby park. Grass is a HUGE commodity in a country that is virtually a desert and where water costs the same as gas in the US. If you see a “Keep off Grass” sign in Turkey, you damn well better. (Legalities prevent me from explaining why I know that fact intimately so you’ll just have to trust me on that one.) 

Since this is his first real round at lawn life, his learning curve has been a slow but gradual climb. Watching his ineptitude at digging holes for trees gave me great comfort, since I now know he won’t be able to burry my body should the need arise. The Turk, on the other hand, was unnerved by my speed and agility with a spade and now sleeps with one eye open. Thankfully that Turk has a know-it-all, farmer’s daughter and botany enthusiast for a wife who can guide him to greatness. (One more reason that Turk is a damn lucky man. Don’t worry, I remind him on the reg.)

I worried that due to his love of all things ‘Merican, he might be sucked in to the epic American quest for the perfect, weed-free lawn. As we signed closing papers I feared the Turk would be spending his weekends trimming the lawn with scissors while hand seeding quadrant after quadrant and spraying gallons of weed killer, subsequently killing off the weeds our ecosystem desperately needs for pollinators to ensure our continued survival. (I am a science teacher. Ecosystems are my jam.) How wrong I was. I was flabbergasted when I learned that my polar opposite husband was on the hippie-lawn train with me, even if our focuses were not identical.

We lived in our new neighborhood less than one week when the Turk watched a lawn treatment company spray numerous neighboring lawns while posting ominous “Caution- Stay off for 24 hours” signs. My hot-headed Ottoman lost it and it was this tree hugger’s dream.

“Why they do that? So stupid. I do not understand Americans.” He paced and as he did, his anger grew. While I loved the words coming from his mouth, I’d seen him wage war against wasps in the shed and was stunned he could harbor a love for bees.

“They want to drink that? They want their kids to drink that?”

This was where he began to lose me. “What are you talking about?”

“That poison goes to ground water. It does not get out in treatment plant. You cannot filter things like that out. How stupid they are.” Ah, there it was. His stance wasn’t about saving the lives of our honey-bearing friends; he was all about ground water. It made perfect sense. My Turk is an environmental engineer specializing in water so he knows of which he speaks. We were now a unified force of nerdom.

I suggested we print up a yard sign, “Let the Weeds Bee.”

The Turk replied, “No. That is stupid.”

Fine.

The first year I was unnerved by the scoffs we’d get from passersby. (Who knew Hoosiers could be such turf elitists?) But the life-cycle of the dandelion plant is generally 3-4 weeks so our abandoned home-inspired lawn would only last until May at best. So I steeled my self against the nature-haters and carried on.

But this year, I’m older and wiser and much too close to menopause to keep my opinions bottled up. This year, when people give my lawn the side-eye I go all Erin Brockavich on their asses. I put on my best Silkwood (Not to brag but I do a fab ‘80’s Cher) and sound the alarm.

“Oh this is not the lawn of lazy homeowners. No, this is the lawn of environmentally responsible individuals working to leave a better world for our children.” I screamed at the fat guy with the dog who turned up his nose.

To the family with the look of scorn I yelled, “Better enjoy that apple your kid has because if you keep killing off the pollinators in your quest for a weed-free lawn, there will be no more apples.” Could there be a kinder way? Perhaps but again, I’m premenopausal so…

I did take a kinder approach with my neighbors, many of whom curse us as each gust of wind aids in the seed dispersal process, transporting dandelions from our lawn to theirs. I gently, yet unapologetically explained the reason behind our resolute decision to avoid weed killers, quoting peer reviewed case studies and scientific data, then closing with a gentle reminder that as an environmental engineer and science teacher chances of us getting on board with neighborhood lawn etiquette are virtually nil. I haven’t swayed many to my save the pollinators side, but the Turk and his groundwater stance has changed some minds. Hopefully next year we won’t be the only house on the block rockin’ the uninhabited lot lawn look.

Bucking the norm isn’t for the weak. It’s a good thing the Turk and I are naturals at swimming upstream so we’re cool with leading the charge.

I might print up a few of my “Let The Weeds Bee!” yard signs. Just in case.

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The Birthday Clock Never Stops…

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Birthdays are awesome…until you’re about 22. Then instead of offering milestones to greatness, birthdays start tallying up the years. When you hit 30 the tally shows adulthood is inevitable. 35 means it’s time to actually stop lying about it and actually start a retirement fund. When the calendar flips to 40 you can literally feel your gums recede and the fluid actually drain from your knees. I’m pretty sure the number associated with my recent birthday led to my immediate development of diabetes while my cholesterol skyrocketed and I gained 5 pounds of belly fat all within a two hour span. Aging blows.

What I wouldn’t give to spring out of bed and…(wait, let’s just stop there. What I wouldn’t give to spring out of bed period.) but really, wouldn’t it be great to have the same excitement about your birthday at 50 that you had at 5? (FYI, I’m not 50…not yet man, don’t make it any worse.) You know, that kind of excitement that leads to wearing a paper crown with your number on the front and telling every human or mammal you encounter, “Today is my birthday! Give me cake!”

My darling husband, The Turk, has never been great with holidays. I’m still waiting for a much-hyped 10th anniversary celebration and we’re only a little ways out from our 11th. Anniversaries are not his jam but he is coming around on birthdays. This year he shopped for a gift almost an entire week before my actual birthday, a massive improvement over days of old when he would head to the nearest supermarket for some expired roses moments before closing. No, this year he even took the boys along for help. Unfortunately, that was where things went wrong.

Within moments of returning and seconds after hiding the goods, Nugget with his newly acquired language skills, beamed, “Mom, we got you asshole atch.” Hubba whaaaaaa? Though Number 1 son and the Turk tried desperately to shush him, Nugget would not be silenced. “Asshole atch.” He told me again while squirming away from the hands desperately trying to cover his motor-mouth.

Because I may be geriatric  but still possess the maturity of a 12 year old boy, I immediately began to see images in my disturbed mind of sparkly buttcheeks sitting atop my wrist with a rapidly moving second hand shaped like a stink cloud. This caused me to laugh even harder. (I really am 12. It’s ok. I own it.) “You unt asshole atch?” The Nugget persisted.

While I was busy wiping the tears from my face, Number 1 was livid. “I can’t believe you told her! It was supposed to be a surprise! You suck Nugget!” Number 1 was right. He did suck but in Nugget’s defense, no one had any clue he was a blabbermouth because this was his first violation.

Somewhere around two, Nugget was diagnosed with Childhood Apraxia of Speech – which involves a misfiring of neurons the prevent kids from being able to get the information from their brain to their lips to get the words out. Up until the past few months, Nugget had only signed and offered a few brief sentences using only vowels. Since he was a silent partner, for most of his 3 1/2 years, he’d been dragged along on many secret missions with all of us comfortable in the knowledge that our secrets were safe with him. Not so now it seems.

Now that Nugget has his hearing aid so he’s hearing all the sounds, is immersed in his special school with daily speech therapy and basically spends 3 hours each day working on his communication skills, he has exploded and there is no putting any cat back in any bag. The kid never shuts up.

You can see the thought process he goes through to get every sound out. His determination is astonishing. But, as illustrated in the case of the asshole ach, he’s still working on quite a few sounds like F. Every time anyone asks him to form an F he shoots back a look that insinuates F is not an actual sound and that we are clearly F-ing with him. I consider this the universe helping a sister out since he’s already demonstrated high skill with profanity thus far that last thing that kid needs is the power of the f-bomb. Sometimes only those closest to him understand him, but sometimes (usually with his favorite phrases like – ‘what the hell?’ Or, ‘oh for godsake!’) he’s a clear as a bell. It’s a process but after 3 years of silence, we’ll take every bit of it. (Until he gets suspended from PreK for that profanity bit…)

Nugget definitely blew the surprise by telling me all about my APPLE watch and quite honestly, there were about a hundred other things I might have requested over a pricey Dick Tracy wrist piece…like a dishwasher that actually washes the dishes…or the downpayment on a car younger than my offspring…or that dental work that keeps getting shoved to the back burner over and over again. But now that I’ve got it, I do quite enjoy it, probably since I spent most of the 70’s talking to my wrist pretending to be Maxwell Smart and now I’m legit.

As the Turk said, “It your birthday. You deserve special thing you do not ask for.” True that Turk, and though I didn’t ask for an asshole watch, hearing that Nugget tell me all about it is exactly what I’ve wanted.

Uranus Is Huge and Filled With Gas, Much Like My Own

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I’ve spent way too many years in middle school. Including my own sentence back in the ‘80’s, I’ve spent somewhere around 20 years in middle school. Even during my time teaching in Turkey, I was in middle school. Is it odd that I’m most comfortable in the one stage of life most people spend years trying to forget? Perhaps. But don’t be mistaken, it’s not like I hit my peak in middle school and thus decided to stay. Oh no. I was a hot mess of braces, bad hair, excess chub and incredible fashion missteps. (I have photographic proof if in doubt.) Middle school was certainly not my jam, so why do I keep going back? No clue but I do love it. Yet another reason that I’m a psychoanalyst’s dream.

While I’ve matured past middle school in some aspects of life, (like my sagging neck and creaky knees) the middle schoolers I teach often surpass me in maturity. This became clear again last week as my middle school science classes began an in-depth study of the Milky Way Galaxy.

As every Earthling knows, (ok maybe not those crazies who are certain Jesus’ sat astride a T-Rex, but I don’t believe those science deniers really deserve to be labeled Earthlings.) that any study of the Milky Way must include, at the very least, mention of the Gas Giant Uranus. (Ok, I cracked up just typing that!)

This is my first time teaching about space so way back last summer when I planned to add this into my winter curriculum, it never occurred to me that I’d have to have various in-depth discussions of Uranus. (HA! Better yours than mine! HA!) No, I was lured into astronomy by the thought of settlements on Mars and the anniversary of Pluto being striped of his planetary status (10 years people, it’s been ten years!). Uranus never entered my mind. (No offense, but I don’t think of my anus often either.)

Perhaps Uranus didn’t come to mind because the last astronomy class I took was in January of ‘92 and involved standing in a cornfield on the northern Iowa tundra during sub-zero temps. The class consisted of staring into the darkness while snot-cicles formed under our noses, clad in layers of clothes scavenged from dorm mates enrolled in more sensible academic pursuits. Not a lot of science happened as we hid bargain booze in our long johns and cracked jokes for survival.

“It’s so dark I can’t even see Uranus.”

“Uranus is so cold it got a crack in it.”

“Move over! Uranus is the only thing I can see though this telescope right now.”

Brilliant young astronomers we were not.

In the years since then, attempts have been made to push through an alternate pronunciation for the gas ball, but it’s useless. You can’t let the world mispronounce your name for 166 years and then decide to change it, (I know, people have been mispronouncing mine for 40+ years.) especially if your name is the butt of so many jokes. (See what I did there? Butt…Uranus…ha!)

During our introduction to planetary alignment, I rushed through the whole “gas giants” section of the solar system with only a few giggles (me, not the kids.) But by fourth period I’d met my maturity cap. The transition between Saturn and Neptune was killing me! Sure, statements like “Uranus rotates horizontally” is relatively innocuous but let’s be honest, if you had to repeatedly explain “Uranus is huge. It is made of gas.” You’d lose it too.

I made it through a few more classes filled with snickers and giggles from both the kids and me. We were all clear on the importance of Uranus and it looked like we might make it until, the Great Toilet Paper lab.

See, there is this method of teaching AU (Astronomical Units, for those of you who haven’t taken an astronomy class since 1992 either. Solidarity my people.) illustrating the vast distances between planets by using toilet paper rolled out on the floor. While Mercury is only half a sheet from the sun, Saturn is 65 sheets of toilet paper away and on and on.

It’s fun and provides an easily visible representation of distance. Unfortunately, my classroom is not big enough to hold an entire scale map of the solar system made in t.p., so the talk of Uranus had to be moved into public space…public space filled with other middle schoolers and teachers. Our immaturity fest was on display as phrases like, “How much toilet paper does Uranus need?” wafted through the halls.

Within seconds, every other adult in the vicinity was sharing the same contorted gafaw-stiffling grimace I’d been wearing all week. Finally, I was not alone. No one in middle school is mature enough for Uranus. No one.

Years ago when I coached middle school boys tennis, no matter how hard I tried, every day at the end of practice, when it was time to say, “Alright boys, pick up your balls.” I couldn’t do it without busting into giggles. Every damn time. It’s kind of reassuring to see that while I’m a very different teacher than I was all those years ago, my soul is still 12.

While this exploration of Uranus has been painful, (hehehe…) it has taught me that, someday when we are all sitting in the TV room at Shady Pines Retirement Villa, I’ll still be crackin’ fart jokes and laughing about Uranus. You’ll just have to listen harder to catch my toothless ramblings.

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Back To School Blows

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again – transitions suck. I’m a routine gal and since the acorn rarely falls far from the tree, my kids are too. For the past year we’ve been in a groove that eventually worked well for us. But now, the times, they are a changin’. While sucking it up and accepting it would be the mature thing to do, maturity has never really been my jam.

This week we moved from our stable, mom’s-got-everything-covered-even-if-it-drives-her-batcrap-crazy life, back into mom’s-going-to-work-every-man-for-himself life. It’s been a year so it may take some time to transition properly. On top of that, the kids are back in school too and anyone who has traversed that trail knows the impending suckage there. (Is it a cry for help if I order cheap wine by the case at this point? What would Betty Ford do?)

Number 1 is in third grade and while we’ve been at this school thing for some time now, third grade is that year when they go from cuddly little sweethearts into smelly big boys. Thanks to his Turk genes, Number 1 has had back hair since birth so he’s already pretty manly, but having finally hit a growth spurt (one that now leaves him only a foot shorter than his friends rather than 2 feet shorter) he just seems big suddenly.

Nugget, now a mature, yet still surly, three year old, started his tour of duty on the Island of Misfit Toys…aka…Developmental Preschool. He’ll spend his mornings singing and signing, playing and partying all while bonding with other kids that struggle like him. To combat his anxiety, we had three visits to his classroom prior to the first day so I assumed we were all prepared for this. Nugget was but Mom was not.

Sitting in my own teacher training the day before Nugget’s start, I had a weird feeling of loss. Due to all his health issues last year, I could probably count on one hand the times Nugget and I have been apart. He’s been kind of like an extra appendage, sometimes helpful and often not, but something I’d grown accustomed to having. As the speaker – who was speaking on the difficult journey of special needs parents (oh the irony)- continued on, the connections were too much and the flood-gates opened. Those flood-gates remained open for the next 24 hours.

Looking at my Nugget and how big he suddenly seemed brought me to tears. Carrying his supplies in to Meet The Teacher Night brought me to tears. Laying out his clothes, wiping his butt, pretty much anything, brought me to tears. I wasn’t expecting this at all.

It all boiled down to this. My baby is now a kid and there is no going back. When kids start school time fast-forwards at an obscene pace. The years move faster, the kids change faster and their maturity grows (Sometimes, I mean, I’ve taught middle school for years so I’ve got a special understanding of the hard-fought battle with maturity.). As a family, you become part of a larger school community that links you to your community in a very different way. After all, you are now the recipient of tax payer dollars and you have a voice in the stupidity of school district decisions. (Even if they ignore your calls and delete your emails …not that I’d know how that feels…I mean, that happened to a friend…)

Once kids start school, every day goes into overdrive as you try to squeeze every second out of it between work, school, practices, homework and everything else. Everyone is running around like headless chickens and life is based around waiting for the next break.

“We can go to pool again over Labor Day weekend.”

“We’ll do something fun on Fall Break.”

“You can sleep in over Christmas Break.”

And before you know, you’ve “waited away” an entire year. It sucks.

This is the part where I’m supposed to impart wisdom and share my resolution to be in the moment or my resolve to live a purposeful life as I put work to the side when I’m with my kids and just enjoy the ride. Ah hells no. I mean come on, who really does that? Who? I’ll tell you. No one. Ain’t nobody got time for that. That’s just the crap you read on parenting blogs.

No, this year I will stock up on wine, try to remember to look at my daily calendar on occasion (before I miss appointments and those bastards charge me anyway). I will strive to make sure everyone has a lunch packed (because even when I was home last year I might or might not have forgotten a couple) and clean underwear. (Though I cannot promise Number One will be wearing them. He’s embraced the natural life and seems unwilling to go back.) Ultimately, I will put my head down and run into this everybody-is-in-school-now life, like a runty running back pushing through a defensive line (it is football season after all), while hoping like hell to come out alive on the other side.

To quote the greats, “Cover me Bree, I’m goin’ in.”

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I Said, Stop Growing Up! Now!

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Parenthood has an uncanny way of making one painfully aware of the speed at which life travels while simultaneously pointing out the snail’s pace required by some developmental processes. In other words, one minute you’re like, “How in the hell did you outgrow the pants I bought two weeks ago?” while in the next breath you’re uttering, “Sweet Jesus child, are you ever going to wipe your own butt?” It’s a balance.

Thanks to his special needs and health issues, I’ve spent the past year oooing and ahhhing over Nugget’s developmental strides like him finally saying “Om!” (Mom) while we prepare for Developmental Preschool. Nugget’s strides don’t make me feel old; they make me feel elated. But Number One Son, on the other hand, his made recent developments that make me feel like screaming “NO! Stop! SOMEBODY SLOW THIS CRAP DOWN!”

A week from now Number One is starting 3rd grade and while it’s not as traumatic as that almighty kindergarten start that haunts a mother for months prior, it’s still a reminder of how freakin’ fast this whole childhood thing goes. (And, if you’re old like me, how much closer you are to the end. Ew.)

To further confirm my suspicion that Number One Son was growing up way faster than I am prepared for, we had a week of events to prove it. It started with a sleepover invite.

“We’d like Richard’s best buds to come for a sleep over to celebrate his birthday!”

Richard? When did they become best buds? Why don’t I know they are best buds? What is this secrecy?

I did my best Nancy Drewing and was met with, “Duh Mom, he was at my birthday party and we played basketball every day at lunch.” Clearly in the world of mini-men, that is all it takes to catapult one into BFF status. (Just another way life is easier for the male species.) But the real issue is, why did he withhold this information from his beloved Smother?

I’m not a sleepover fan. They make me nervous and kick my doom and gloom anxiety into overdrive. Because of this, to date; we’ve had one…just one, sleepover…and we knew those people pretty well and I was still nervous. We did meet Richard’s father and Richard’s dog when they dropped him off at Number One’s B-day, and while he seemed like a nice enough guy with a seemingly well-behaved K-9, I had some reservations. In hindsight, I probably should not have shared those reservations with the kid though.

“I don’t know Number One, I don’t think you can stay over. We don’t know these people.”

“Mom, it will be fine. They’re nice.”

“You don’t know that. What if they have a gun in the house? Or worse, what if they have an entire semi-automatic arsenal and shooting range in their basement. This is Indiana, you know.”

“You always say that Mom. I’m sure they don’t.”

“You say that now but you won’t be saying that when you come home with a hand shot off.”

*massive 8 year old eyeroll* “MOM!”

“Ok, then what if they are Trump supporters? You know, you are a half-breed and those Trumpagogs don’t take kindly to one-half of your people. This is Indiana, you know.”

“There was only one kid in our class who liked Trump and it wasn’t Richard. I choose smart friends Mom.” (Right on Number One.)

“Well, it’s a rough time for Turks right now and maybe these people are undercover operatives working for Erdogan planning to take you hostage under the suspicion of being a Gulenist, and they will then extradite you back to your birth place where you will be subjected to life in prison with no chance of a fair trail. Did you ever think of that?”

“Was that even English Mom? You watch too much Turkish news.”

Eventually, I put the discussion on hold with the whole, “Let’s see what Baba says.” Knowing the Turk’s overprotective tendencies, I figured I was safe. But no. Instead he told Number One – “Maybe. We think about it.”

Nooooo! Why ya gotta do me like that Turk?

After putting the kid off as long as we could, my crazy won the Turk over and we said “no” as a united force. (I’m pretty sure it was the Turkish operative thing.) We did compromise and let him stay at the party until 9:00 and Number One, who is a rabid homebody, was secretly ok with it in the end.

But then there was the girl. There is an awesome little broad who was in Number One’s class last year and happens to live across the neighborhood. Every so often she pops over on her scooter and wants to play. But she doesn’t want to play dumb stuff, she wants to have water gun battles, or shoot hoops or play Star Wars. She’s the kind of girl who gets hurt and lets the blood run without a tear shed, because she damn sure isn’t going to get left behind. She’s badass and this week she popped by.

Normally, Number One plays for 5 minutes and gives the brush off, but not this time. This time he was enthralled and when she started breaking out obscure Star Wars facts, I saw him blush. BLUSH! Aw hells no kid. I mean, big picture –- yes, this is the exact kind of girl I will be choosing for him as a life partner in 20 years so I guess it’s good to see he’s on the right path…but now? Really? No. Just no. There will be no love interests at age 8.

I do love that badass little chick but I’m not above starting a smear campaign to keep my little boys hanging on to the apron strings. My Beverly Goldberg hand is strong and I intend to keep my little pookies all mine for as long as possible…at least until they’re old enough to hold lucrative employment. Then I’ll charge rent but my boys can stay as long as they like! (Apologies to my future daughters-in-law but these boys are mama’s boys for the long haul.)

Four-Eyes? Nah Girl, They Call Me Six-Eyes.

In honor of hitting the big 4-4 this week, I’ve chosen to reveal my most recent age related humiliation. I have several but thankfully they have yet to include false teeth falling out at dinner or adult diapers. I’m old, but I’m not that old.

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Way back in Ms. Fox’s 7th grade science class (She was the first Ms. teacher I ever experienced and since feminism hadn’t reached rural Iowa yet I didn’t understand why she didn’t just go with Miss. I get it now Ms. Fox – good on you sister.) Anywhooo, after copying a series of particularly boring notes on cell division from the board, I glanced at my lab partner’s paper only to realize that what I’d interpreted as miscellaneous squiggles (Because isn’t that what any cell diagram really is – squiggles?) were actually words. Troubled by this development, I approached my mother who’d been wearing glasses since about birth, and said, “I think I might need glasses.”

As luck would have it I did and after much deliberation I picked out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses just like Bailey’s from WKRP in Cincinatti. (If you’re under 40, Google her. She was awesome.) Bailey with her nerdy, brainiac look and early 80’s G-rated sarcasm was my idol and I was elated to take my adoration to the emulation level. But I soon realized that glasses suck. In the winter they fog up. In the summer they slide down your nose. You can’t wear trendy sunglasses and when you sit on them and break them, your parents want to set you on fire. (They didn’t actually Joan of Arc me, but the fear was real.)

Fortunately, I learned to survive using my glasses only in class for many, many years. Then somewhere in my 30’s I needed them for the computer and eventually to drive at night but mostly I got by without them for close to 20 years. With both of my pregnancies everything shifted – and though the neck down shifting was less than desirable, the neck up shifting gave me stellar vision. Both times I didn’t need my glasses until three or four months after giving birth when things re-shifted. But this last time around, oh baby did things shift in a bad way.

Since I was old when I had the Nugget, by the time my vision shifted back to what I thought was normal I was almost 42 and when I went in for a new prescription I heard the dreaded B-word – bifocal. How could I have an infant and need bifocals? Mother nature you are a cruel hussy. But faced with the choice between squinting 24/7 like Mama June Booboo or wearing b…b…bifocals, I accepted the latter. The doughboy who fit my new frames assured me that with progressives no one would ever guess I was wearing b…b…bifocals. But what he didn’t explain was that I wouldn’t be able to see out of them either.

After mulitpule refittings they decided to check my prescription. When I said, “I can’t see out of them. I’m 42 and I can’t see 20 feet away. I think that’s the problem.” The rather surly woman replied, “Well, at your age eyes change.”

Of course eyes change you bimbo, isn’t that what glasses are for?

Fast forward a year – In a fit of desperation I decided to go online and MacGyver my own prescription by mixing a few old ones. A few online tutorials, some measuring and $24.99 later I received a pair of glasses in my mailbox that changed my life. I saw clearly for the first time in two years. Sure, I had a giant granny-line in the middle of my lens that said, “Look at me, I’m old!” but with the vision I had, I didn’t care. I realized that if I wore them all the time, I saw even better so I ordered three more pairs and officially shifted my love from shoes to glasses.

But  a few months ago, everything shifted again. I wasn’t able to count the feathers on the bird three streets over any more. No matter how many times I nodded my head up and down I couldn’t get anything to sharpen. There was only one answer; I was going blind. I didn’t want worry the Turk that he was doomed to a life of leading me around so I had Number One Son read all tiny print and hoped for the best when driving.

As things got worse I braced myself for my impending fate. Outside I waved farewell to the trees and birds. I stared lovingly at my children’s faces hoping to emblazon them into my memory. I saved countless audio books for when I could no longer survive with even the geriatric large print and then, I sucked it up and made an appointment with a new eye doctor to hear the bad news.

My new eye doctor was 12, but maybe bad news feels better if delivered by Doogie Houser? After a thorough exam and his proclamations of utter amazement at my ability to MacGyver my own prescription, he broke the news. “Sometimes, after a late in life pregnancy and nursing things continue to adjust for quite some time. That’s what you’re experiencing.” I gripped the edges of the chair waiting for him to lower the boom and tell me where to buy my white cane. “I do need to tweak your prescription, but  overall, you just need to use eye drops. Your eyes are too dry and that’s what changing your vision.”

Huh? Eye drops? Well how ‘bout that.

He sent me home with a sample and within hours, I was back to counting the dust spots on my neighbor’s chandelier through my MacGyvered prescription. (The man really should put up some blinds.)

My new glasses should arrive Friday but I don’t feel like I really need them. I mean, I did just put an end to degenerative blindness with a couple drops of Visine, I’m good. If only there was a drop of something for an overactive imagination…cb4979f7db9a0d5b065102cee9a226bf