Four-Eyes

I wear contacts. I remember the day I got them. I was 17, and it was right before a Christmas play I was in. My character didn’t exactly conform to the whole glasses image. I remember the first time I ever wore them, trying them on there in the optometrist’s office. I was overwhelmed by my ability to see out of the corners of my eyes. It’s impossible to do that with glasses. Or at least, it is when your eyesight is as bad as mine.

I got glasses when I was 4. When my mom took me in for the kindergarten vision check up, the eye doctor told me to read the first letter on the chart. I squinted and responded, “What chart?” He told my mom he had never seen such an acute astigmatism in a child so young. Gee, thanks. What do I get, a nerd trophy?

*Also, side story: When I had the eye exam, they made me take a depth perception test, usually something they do for young children. They tried to make me touch this plaque with a 3D fly in it. I remember screaming, thrashing, trying to get out of the seat, doing anything to avoid touching that fly. Who makes a 5 year old touch a 3D fly??! It’s downright cruelty. For the next 21 years, every time the fly experience came up, people looked at me like I was crazy. No one had ever heard of such a thing. I began to think maybe I had imagined it. But last year, at one of Atleigh’s (numerous) opthalmology appointments, the nurse opened a drawer and I SAW IT! THE FLY! I had a total freak out moment. I practically screeched, “Oh my God!!! It exists!!! The fly exists!!!” Needless to say, she thought I was crazy. But, obviously, I’m NOT. Because the fly EXISTS. End of side story.*

My first pair of glasses were hideous. The late 80’s were not kind to eyewear fashions. They were this enormous plastic affair, like what Dustin Hoffman wore in Tootsie. They faded from pink at the top to blue at the bottom. They took up my whole face, from eyebrow to lower cheek. I hated them, even as a young child. To make matters worse, my eyesight was so bad that when I first got the glasses, I had vertigo. I remember everything stretching like a fisheye lens, lifting my leg three feet in the air to step over a curb, and stumbling in a parking lot because it looked like hills.

As I said, I got my first pair of contacts when I was 17 (that’s 12 YEARS of wearing glasses), and I’ve never looked back if I could help it (ha, vision joke- because I could have looked back, since contacts provide peripheral vision). There have been horrible days, weeks, or months in the last 10 years where I’ve been forced to wear my glasses when money is too tight for me to buy new contacts. My extreme nearsightedness and astigmatism (even my astigmatism is abnormal, for an astigmatism) mean that contacts for me run a couple hundred dollars. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

When I have to wear my glasses, my whole outlook on life changes. I feel dowdy, plain, grumpy, claustrophobic, and self conscious. My self esteem, which is already low, plummets further. My hair gets on my nerves, my face feels greasy, my nose looks pointy-er. I can’t see to put on my make up, I can’t see shampoo bottles- the whole process is squint, grab, repeat. I can’t blow-dry my hair because my glasses get knocked off my face. To top all that off, the glasses I have are 5 years old, the prescription is expired, and I can’t drive at night with them because I can’t read road signs.

Don’t get me wrong, I think there are a ton of people who look great in glasses. I just don’t think I’m one of them. I see all these pretty girls in glasses, and I think, “Why can’t I look that cute? Why am I such a nerd?” They look intellectual, whereas I just look like that scrawny 5 year old. A Four-Eyes.

Tomorrow I have to wear my glasses. My bi-weekly contacts that I’ve been wearing for the past *cough* two months, have rubbed a sore on the inside of my eyelid. I’d suffer through it if it didn’t feel like I scraped a fork across my eyeball every time I blink. I’d rather not go blind the rest of the way at the age of 27, so I’m trying to let it heal for a day or two before I put in my new pair of contacts.

You may ask, what is the point to all this blogging? The answer is, there isn’t a point. I’m just warning the general public that I will be nerdy and grumpy tomorrow. Don’t sneak up on me from behind, because I won’t have peripheral vision, don’t expect my makeup to look good, and don't call me Four-Eyes.

Whine Entitlement

I think all wives and mothers should be entitled to emotional pain and suffering compensation. I really do. It is so stressful. And what makes it worse, is most of the time it’s nothing you can really pinpoint, or explain. Just a general weariness. It’s not like, when Jeremy asks me “What’s wrong with you?”, that I can immediately produce a bullet list of reasons. Maybe I should start keeping one- with men, logic is the key to validation.

So here’s how my week has been:

Monday, I woke up with a throbbing headache, the kind that hurts when you move your eyeballs. Thankfully, Jeremy was home from work and could help some with the kids, but for some reason, my kids can’t grasp the whole “I have two parents” idea. They want a drink, they come to me. They need their butts wiped, they call me. They want food, toys, new clothes, vindication, they come to me. I try to tell them over and over, “Go see Daddy! That’s why you have TWO. PARENTS.” I wonder if he’s behind my back doing the ol’ violent arm wave (“Noooo! Don’t do it!”), because they will. not. listen to me. I’ve heard people say that they became a mother because they wanted to be needed. I wonder if they realized beforehand how very “needed” mothers are. Dogs are needy. Clingy boyfriends are needy. Kids? They’re straight leeches. If they could, they would crawl back into your uterus.

So anyway, Monday was a bust.

Tuesday, I was rushing the kids out to take Ashton to school, opened the car doors, and realized I was short two car seats. They had been left in Jeremy’s Jeep. It was too late for me to wait for him to bring them back, so I had to buckle them into the seats and pray to God I didn’t get in an accident or get pulled over (please, please don’t report me to the police. I’m a stickler for the car seat issue, trust me.). My kids were nervous too, they’ve heard me plenty of times ranting at ignorant people who stuff seven 2 year olds into the back of a Honda Civic. All the way to the school (a 9 minute drive), Chloe’s in the back seat chanting “If the police catch you you’re gonna go to jail!”, with Ashton chiming in with, “If we get in an accident the seatbelt’s gonna cut my neck off!”

So Tuesday didn’t start off well.

This morning, I was doing pretty well. Except I just remembered, as I type this, that I forgot to give my poor kid breakfast. $&%@. Anyway, we got out of the house in a timely manner, all car seats accounted for, all kids mostly cognizant, and drove to school. There’s a random guy who rides an old banana seat bicycle up and down Briarfield, going with the traffic, about 5 miles an hour, on the street. Not the sidewalk. He didn’t ruin my day or anything, it just bugs me. It’s stupid and dangerous. I wonder if he’s not quite all there.
We pull up to the school, and I see all these boys with collared shirts and ties on. Crap. It’s school picture day. Collared shirts and ties are required for boys on school picture day. Brushed hair is a plus. Neither of which my son had. His teacher JUST reminded me, less than 24 hours ago. How did I forget that quickly?? So I had to rush back home, scrounge out his undershirt, white button down shirt, and red striped tie, rush back out the door, to the school (thankfully crazy bike guy was gone) and drop it off at the office. Wearing sweatpants, with unwashed hair in ratty pigtails, and my old glasses. Thank God I had at least put on a bra this morning. Also I just remembered that I forgot to clip Ashton’s fingernails.

None of these things individually seem like that big of deal. I guess really, on rereading them, they seem pretty insignificant. Like I said, I can’t provide a PowerPoint presentation on why I’m so stressed and over it this week. There’s no exact reason. It’s just one thing after another, after another, after another. Most people will tell you that it’s not the major problems that they can’t handle. It’s the stupid, little, everyday things that drive you crazy, keep you awake at night, and make you dread getting out of bed in the morning. That’s a lot of what motherhood is. If one of my kids (God forbid) broke a bone or something, I could handle that. It would be terrible, but that’s a crisis that I can manage. However, if my kid pees on his/herself in the middle of Target, I will lose it. Not only because it would suck, but also because I more than likely won’t have a change of clothes, which will make me spend money I don’t have to buy a change of clothes, which will make me feel like a terrible spendthrift on top of already being a terrible mother for not having a change of clothes for my kid, or better yet, for not listening when they said that they really had to go potty. You see what I mean? It’s all a downward spiral.

So today I felt entitled to a little whine. Since apparently I’m actually not entitled to emotional pain and suffering compensation.

P.S. The above image was on a postcard my sister gave me once. I thought it apropos.

Also, I just had to add this. While I was typing this blog, Atleigh spilled her entire drink in the living room, then attempted to clean it up with a whole roll of toilet paper. I suppose she gets points for trying to clean up her own mess. But the negative points from my having to clean up her attempt at cleaning up might counterbalance the whole thing.

To Sir, With Love

For those of you who don’t know, my dad has been in the Ukraine for the past two weeks. He’s on his way back now. I don’t think I realized how much I talk to him and take his presence for granted until now, when I haven’t been able to call him whenever I want. I never thought that I did call him that much, really. Turns out I do.

My relationship with my dad has been... strange. I felt neglected as a child, smothered as a teenager, and slightly resentful as a young adult. Now, as a full fledged adult, I’ve learned to appreciate my dad more. Of course. It always works that way.

It’s been the little things, and some big things, these past few weeks that have made me realize how much I really depend on my dad. Things like, “Hey Dad, have you seen this movie yet? I think it’d be in your ‘Men of Honor’ category” (Rothwells know what I mean), or “How far are you in the book you’re reading?”. Wanting to call to talk to him about The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Keith Green. And then there’s the bigger things... Ashton starting school back, Isaac and Phil being stranded at the airport, Adam sick as a dog, and several family crises hitting all at once.

My dad has teased me before about being “the glue” in the family, or a “force of nature” (not quite sure if that’s a compliment or not), but I don’t think that’s quite accurate. While he’s been gone, I’ve felt like our family’s cover is gone with him. Like we were stranded in an unexpected storm without our umbrella. Even when he’s not actively providing shelter, there’s always the option there. Even when we get mad at him for trying to protect us from the storm, there’s a certain sense of comfort there, knowing that if it ever got too rough for us, we could open our umbrella.

So there’s a few things I’d like to say to him when he finally gets home:

Welcome home, Papa.

I’ve missed you.

I love you.

Thank you.

Anonymous

It doesn’t matter that I don’t think I’m good enough. Washed up, sunk into oblivion, waste of space. But it matters if they think it. Not in so many words, of course. But enough to not stick up for me, even to myself. Enough to listen to me berate myself, and not tell me they disagree. Enough to not brag about me.

I used to be good. I used to be worth it. Circumstances have been against me. Circumstances, and my own collapse of self confidence. So instead of speaking up, having a voice, I have chosen to let go. Nobody regrets that more than I do. And nobody has tried to help me overcome it, either. Especially not them. I just want a biggest fan. Doesn’t everyone need one? I’m theirs. They know it. I can be their biggest fan, and therefore be the most honest, be their biggest critic. They're my biggest critic, alright. But without being a fan. They can criticize, but without having built me up enough to earn it.

So instead of giving me a chance, helping me reclaim myself, they watch me struggle. Tell me if I really wanted it, I would just do it. They of all people should know the dichotomy of wanting and doing. So separate. Despite common myths, and countless refrigerator magnets, wanting it bad enough doesn’t mean you get it. It just means you’re restless, discontent, and always wishing you were better.

Confrontation Sensation

I hate feeling like I can’t do anything right. No matter which way I turn, whatever I say, it’s going to be wrong. Or received wrong, at the least. How do I get past this? I shouldn’t have to deal with this as a grown adult. This stuff is so childish.

I hate this feeling that I get in the pit of my stomach, this sick, aching, burning sensation. I know what it is. It’s the Confrontation Sensation. The feeling that I should say something, but what? And what does it matter? I can keep laying down, taking it, trying to work around it. Or, I can call it like it is, call it on the carpet, and lay it all out once and for all. Either way it’s wrong. And either way, it’s never over.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself, not really. Just feeling sorry in general, and wishing that being sorry was enough. Even when half the time I don’t know what it is I’m sorry for.

A Corner Table

Have I mentioned that I hate change? Those of you who know me well, will know that, at least.

Jessi and I started a “play date” of sorts over 4 years ago. Ty and Chloe were still in their Graco infant car seats, not even old enough to take part in the playing. Eli, Ashton, and Kaelin toddled around... Eli still in love with The Wiggles, Ashton still in curls, Kaelin’s hair still falling in wings. Barely old enough to walk, much less play together. And yet they loved each other. And, probably (ok, well definitely...), Jessi and I used the whole “play date” thing as a way to get some sanity.

Ty and Chloe choked on their first french fries on those play dates. Potty trained, learned to climb, played American Idol, shared their first little kiss.



Missy joined us over a year ago. I, of course, already having established that I hate change, wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It turned out to be one of the best things that could have happened to our circle, and to me.

That little corner table in Chick-fil-A has seen a lot. Too much. So much, in fact, that if it were human, we’d be forced to kill it. It’s seen a lot of laughter. Inside jokes, flirting, hysterical, insane *FREAKOUT* moments, drink spills, food spills, and quite possibly some blood spilling too.

Our table’s seen a lot of tears, as well. Probably more than any table has a right to. Tears over divorce, over fights, over unexpected pregnancy, and first days of school. Tears over birth, and death, and loss. Tears over broken hearts, broken promises, even broken nails if it caught us in the wrong week. It’s seen hugs, and cold shoulders, high fives, and fist pumps.


I’m going to miss my little corner table. It’s been a friend, a safe haven, a reason to get through the week. It’s helped forge two of the strongest friendships of my life.


And I’m still thinking maybe we should kidnap it... just to keep it from talking, of course.

An Elephant Never...

I hope you don’t get offended if I call you an elephant.

You see, at a recent Bible study, we were encouraged to let others into our lives, to trust in and lean on each other. This isn’t really an uncommon exhortation at a Bible study, and one I’ve learned to shrug off along with other advice that I feel doesn’t “apply” to me, such as color coordinating your laundry hampers, and planting flowers in your front yard to spruce it up.

However, this particular speaker got around my shrugging shoulders, by using an analogy I’ll never forget (Ha! Elephant joke...).

Elephants are some of the most family oriented mammals, along with humans and primates. They stick together. Not just out of necessity. Out of affection. Out of a desire, even a need, for companionship.

The speaker told us that there have been proven cases that when an elephant has been wounded or incapacitated, unable to walk, to keep up with the herd, the herd will slow down or even stop altogether to ensure that she can stay with them. Not only that, if she falls and cannot get up, the other family members will come beside her, lift her up, and hold her up until she can walk again. In essence, saving her life, because the weight of a wounded elephant will keep her from getting back up again if she falls.

Wow.

I wonder if that injured elephant wished they would just leave her to die. I wonder if there were times when she was so hurt, so weary, so miserable, that she would have rather they just left her in the dust, to fret and mourn. I wonder if she lashed out at her sisters, her friends, trying to shove their shoulders away from her, screaming at them, hating them for forcing her to be strong.

I wonder if she ever told them thank you.

If you have ever been one of my elephants, and you know who you are, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. If it were not for you, I wouldn’t - couldn’t - have gotten back up. All the numerous times I have fallen in the dust, wounded, weary, unable to keep myself moving, you have been there for me. You’ve forced me up. You’ve wrapped your arms around me, stood with me, shoulder to shoulder, and never let me collapse back into that dusty heap. Even when I tried to shove you away, when I lashed out at you with words that I didn’t mean, you stayed.

Thank you for staying.

I love you, my elephant.