She’s been asking for contacts for at least five years, but I wanted to wait until I felt she was mature enough to keep up with them and all of that. After all, we’re talking about an expensive but tiny piece of transparent plastic here. Logically, these things are going to be hard to keep up with.
Also, I myself got contact lenses at a young age (an unfortunate medical necessity at the time) and drove my mother CRAZY by ruining and/or losing them on a regular basis. But it seemed like ET was responsible enough to handle contacts at age 15.
So last Sunday we went to the Wal-Mart vision center and started the process.
They fitted her with the lenses, and said she was to wear them for increasing amounts of time for a week, and then come back the next Sunday to make sure all was well before receiving her final prescription. She had a little trouble learning to put them in and take them out; however, she was able to do it well enough.
By contrast, you should have seen the drama that ensued when ten-year old ME had to learn to insert contact lenses. My poor mother came by her prematurely gray hair honestly, let me tell you!
So I was pleasantly surprised when we spent less than half an hour on the whole “fitting” part for the contacts and were ready to go. The optometrist told me as we were leaving to remember to have ET wear the lenses every day all week.
She said, “If she loses or tears one at the end of the week, don’t worry about it; just come in on Sunday for the appointment and you’ll still get the final prescription, But if that happens early in the week, like on Tuesday or Wednesday, you’ll need to come get another pair.”
I thought, Well we shouldn’t have to worry about that. After all, it’s only a week. She should be able to keep up with them, no problem.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
On Monday ET came downstairs and said she’d lost a contact.
I said, “Already?!”
I went upstairs with her to search the bathroom, and she hovered behind me saying helpful things like, “I already LOOKED there,” and “I told you I searched for like an HOUR! It’s just not here!”
I cannot TELL you how often I had this conversation with my own mother as a kid. I recognize that I completely deserved this annoying little drama.
Bottom line: The contact was gone. I had to go back to Wal-Mart and get another one. After ONE DAY!
And I think I sprouted a few new gray hairs…
above image from bausch.com
This week after evening fellowship at the chapel we all piled in with the usual confusion.
Boo was worried about protecting the sculpture of Noah’s Ark she’d made out of play-dough. GG had a friend she’d brought to church with us and they were conspiring busily. ET was telling me about the activities they’d done in youth group. The twins were just yelling.
ET: So we had socks filled with flour and--
Boo: Ack! Mommy! GG took my craft!
Baby Boy: Bug!
Me: GG! Give your sister back her craft! Boo, put it back in the bag!
GG: I don’t even HAVE her stupid craft!
Baby Boy: Bug!
Boo: She DID have it.
ET: Then we were supposed to run around with the socks--
Baby Boy: Bug!
GG: Like I would even WANT her stupid craft.
Boo: You SQUISHED it! Mommy! She SQUISHED it!
Baby Boy: Bug!
GG: I did NOT squish it!
ET: They wouldn’t let us actually HIT each other with the socks after LAST time--
Baby Boy: Bug!
Me: Boo, it looks fine. It’s not squished.
Boo: It IS! Right here on the edge!
Baby Boy: Bug!
Me: It’s fine. Okay, doors are closed; is everyone buckled in?
ET: Ack! There’s a cockroach crawling on the ceiling!
Baby Boy: Bug!
I looked up. There was, indeed, a roach directly above my head. (Just like Baby Boy had been trying to tell us!)
There followed much shrieking and ducking. I took off my shoe and pounded the ceiling with it. ET screamed, “Where is it? Where is it? Did it fall on me?” Boo hovered protectively over her sculpture. The twins laughed hysterically. GG and her friend, amazingly, remained oblivious to the whole thing.
When the bug had been dispatched to its final rest, and all the noise had finally died down, we were able to drive away.
All was quiet…until the next crisis….
above image from hasbro.com/playdoh
So yesterday I was having a phone conference with my sixth-grade daughter’s teacher about her grades.
(Yes, the same one who informed me of Einstein’s lack of prowess in school! Click here to read about that.)
While I was talking about checking her assignments and blah blah blah, I looked up and saw Baby Girl drop a big poop on the floor next to the potty.
At the same time, Baby Boy, sitting on the adjacent potty --they have a his-and-hers set-- yelled out, “I POO-POO! Wipe my BOTTOM!”
So the whole time I was trying to have a serious conversation with an educational professional about my daughter’s schooling, I was cleaning up poop.
I am SO glad we don’t have video phones.
I’m sure GG’s teacher would agree.
(above image from aoltv.com)
I hate flies.
I really do.
I mean besides the obvious reasons to hate flies --according to wikipedia they are capable of carrying 100 pathogens!--I just hate their ATTITUDE.
I hate how they dart inside your house in the few seconds that the door is open, fly all around your kitchen, then alight and sit with apparent casual ease rubbing their nasty little feet together.
Until the moment you grab a flyswatter or rolled-up magazine, when they zip off the second before you smack them dead.
It’s like they’re taunting you, saying, “Look at me! I’m so relaxed and unsuspecting here. Try and hit me. Just try! I dare you! Whoops! Too late, sucker!”
Rotten little things.
(above image from wikipedia)
