Just some things.

This past week has kept me oh-so-busy.

Like, Bizzy.

And it’s been good.

But, it has not left me with the time or energy to put my pen to paper to keyboard,

or what have you.

So, as a way to fill you in (or an attempt to make an excuse),

here are some things.

Some things I’ve done since we spoke last.

Just some things:

I’ve started to jog. And by jog, I mean I jog for a minute and then walk for ten minutes. But, I’m moving my body, so now I can officially call myself a jock. My next step will be getting a jersey with my name on it.

I’ve become a regular at our favorite lunch spot.

I’ve been singing. For other people (!).

I made these. And I ate them. All of them. Thank Gd I’m an athlete, now.

I found my poetry, again.

I crowded into a tiny dressing room with my Mom and my Mommom and my Aunt and My Sister and my Daughter, as we all helped my sister to find the perfect dress. I felt so lucky. (More on this to come…)

I watched a dear, so-in-love couple as they became husband and wife.  I toasted to their marriage. I requested this song I got DOWN.

I bowled, terribly.

I woke up one morning and danced, in sunglasses, to Queen, before brushing my teeth.

I heard a friend tell me that I didn’t seem like myself; I knew that she was right; I let her talk me through it; I felt so much love.

I had a picnic outside with my class. We dined on chocolate cake and rice cakes. We are so elegant.

I heard my daughter sing every word of “Sydney (I’ll Come Running)”.

I got a hair cut. I botched a manicure. I found my daughter in my makeup drawer, with a face-full of blush. And pride.

I explained to a group of 3-year-old boys why my daughter needs glasses.

I haven’t slept well.

I’ve seen piles of feathers.

I’ve missed you.

“with glasses.”

originally published on Little Four Eyes

Something happened, recently;

In fact, many somethings:

My baby daughter became a kid;

She started to go to school;

She got recognized for her glasses.

Back in the early days, when her diagnoses and spectacles were so new,

my greatest fear was that she’d be judged.

I worried that she would be ridiculed

and prayed that she would not be marginalized.

I hoped that people would be able to look beyond the tiny, wire frames that sat upon her nose,

and not see a girl who was bespectacled,

but instead, a girl who was being spectacular.

I hoped. I wished. I waited.

And then, she grew up.

She started preschool.

She met children.

She made new friends.

And, by coincidence, we found out that another girl in her class had the very same name.

I wrestled with the idea of how to tackle the name situation, as I am in the role of both mother and teacher,

and with the girls being so young, I wanted to avoid as much confusion as possible.

Should I call my daughter by her full name, although she’s used to going by the abbreviation?

Should I tack on the first initial to their last name?

But, before I could come up with the right answer,

it was handed to me;

handed to me by two, tiny, sticky, toddler hands.

A little boy in the class, for whom my daughter has the utmost affection, began to ask for her on his drive to school in the morning.

His mother shared with me that as they would pull into the parking lot, he would ask for his teachers, the puppets, and my daughter.

And he would say her name, and then, to be absolutely clear, he would modify it, by saying,

“…With glasses.”

His mother told me this with a smile.

Her son loved my daughter. His friend. His friend with glasses.

And when I heard this, I was overcome with great emotion.

For all those many days and weeks and months, I had felt so worried that my daughter would not be seen for who she was

for what she could do,

and here it was: The affirmation of my fears. My kid was the little girl who was known for having glasses, and even given a nickname, as such.

And as soon as her words hit me,

I felt

absolutely

nothing

but

love.

I thought it was precious.

I felt grateful.

I felt proud.

Because for me, her glasses are just one of the many things that maker her special. And they make her special to her new friend. And they have absolutely nothing to do with why he loves her.

He loves her because she shares his obsession with animals. He loves her because they do puppet shows for one another. He loves her because they sit quietly together, in the corner, and read books. And he loves her enough to have a nickname for her. And it is true. She’s with glasses,

but she’s also with so much more.

About Mommy

Hey there!

Hi!

Thank you so much for stopping by.

You may been here before. Thanks so much for sticking around.

But, perhaps you’re new here. Perhaps you’ve wandered these parts before, but you’re not sure. Perhaps you need something to jog your memory. Perhaps you’re not a newbie, per se, but haven’t been here since the beginning.

I’m here to catch you up.

See that tab right over there?

Yeah. There —————————————>

That’s my little bio, but really, it’s a bit stale. Things have changed. Of course I’m still parenting a Princess Baby with my Prince Charming, and things are still wonderful,

and also sometimes scary,

but my little girl has grown up before my eyes. And now, she actually can have an intelligible conversation with me. And since I started this journey of writing from Land of Mom, my girl got glasses. And this new path allowed both of us to look at the world differently. So, I write about it.

And since I began chronicling my “Ever After”, I had a very important “promotion”; Not only am I a teacher at the most warm, wonderful, vibrant, colorful, amazing school, but I have now also become a parent there. It is the BEST.

So that’s me. That’s who I am and what I do. But, most importantly, I want thank you for taking this journey with me. Whether this is your first or four-hundredth visit, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being a part of my ever after.

And now, in order to get us all up to speed, here are my cliff notes; an abridged version of how I got here today.

Much love and baby kisses,

Mommy Becca

Mommy, Ever After; The Cliff Notes:

I was born. I know, spoiler alert, right?! Read about Baby Becca.

I lived, I loved, yada yada yada….I met my husband.

The Story Of Us

The Story of Us–Chapter 1

The Story of Us–Chapter 2

The Story of Us–Chapter 3

He liked it, so he put a ring on it.

The Proposal Story

The Proposal, Part Une

The Proposal, Part Deux

The Proposal, Part Trois

The Proposal, Part Quatre

The Proposal, Part Forever

And we got married and decided to grow a baby. And she had to come out, somehow.

The Birth Story (Caution: Not for the Faint of Heart)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5–A Happy Ending

(Spoiler Alert:) It’s a girl!

A girlie girl.

She was named for a Superhero.

Oh, and I breastfed her for 17 3/4 months.

Also, you should probably know that

I am obsessed with feathers, and this is why.

(read more about my feather obsession here. ) And I always keep an eye out for pennies.

In my house, we have nightly dance parties,

obsessions with Sex and the City, Dirty Dancing and Top Chef

and absolutely no boundaries.

I sing.

I have an incredibly tight family.

And we always save room for dessert.

There you have it. A small glimpse into the highlights of this land I call home.

I hope you stick around. I hope you enjoy.

Yesterday, we did a lot of important things,

but the MOST important of things was this:

a very special new accessory for Bitty Baby.

Phew! My two tiniest girls are twins, again.

(Full disclosure, when I bought these Bitty Baby glasses, I got choked up. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t happy. I was just choked up. Just because it is a thing.  Hey, what can I say? It has certainly gotten easier, but it’s not always easy. I guess motherhood never is.)

Ok, Bitty Baby…time to Bespectacular.

A Time Out.

Originally published on Little Four Eyes

I have to admit something;

In my career as a mommy, there have been moments that I am not proud of.

Like this weekend, when I told my husband that he just had to watch the baby for a few minutes. I had something important to do.

(Really, I just had to go down to the kitchen and eat cookie dough straight from the refrigerator).

Maybe not my finest moment.

Or later that evening, when we took my daughter out to dinner.

As I walked up and down the sidewalk, waiting for our food to be ready, we were stopped by a couple and their young son.

“I have to ask, how do you get her to keep her glasses on?” Asked the woman, lounging in her chair.

And in the same breath, she choked, “But she’s still sooo cute.”

And, in that moment, I loathed her. Loath is too kind a word. I hated her. I didn’t hate her for the question. The question is fair enough. In fact, it is the second most popular question we get.

I hated her for the implication. For the tone.

Why shouldn’t my daughter still be cute? She is beautiful. She is perfect. The glasses are irrelevant. Are you saying they’re not?

My words were acrid in my mouth as I responded to the woman.

“She keeps them on because she can’t see very well without them.”

And then I walked away.

My blood felt hot and my stomach felt heavy.

I did not feel particularly proud of that.

***

But, if I’m being honest, there was another moment.

A moment that I am nearly too afraid to describe.

A moment that was so painful and confusing and embarrassing that it still makes my heart hurt.

I was taking my daughter for a walk. We strolled around a beautiful, outdoor shopping complex, and as I pushed my precious girl in her stroller, we chatted and she laughed with me. I felt so happy. I felt love.

And as we walked, I saw a pregnant woman sitting on a bench. She looked up, studied my daughter and smiled. But, for an instant, I thought I caught a glimpse of her face contorting…I thought I saw another emotion begin to creep across her features…

And that’s when it happened;

My least proud moment:

I worried that this woman, this pregnant vessel to a new life soon to be born, was looking at my daughter and hoping that her baby wouldn’t have to have glasses like mine. I thought I saw pity in her eyes.

And then, I died inside.

Not because I cared what the woman thought–

not at all–

but because I hated myself for letting my mind go to that horrible, terrible, scary place.

I felt ashamed.

I did not feel proud on that day.

So, I gave myself a time out.

I asked myself why I read sadness or fear in the mist that had gathered in the pregnant woman’s eyes.

And in my time out, I recognized that while I have totally grown to love and accept my daughters eyes,

all four of them,

it still hurts sometimes.

It hurt when the woman in the restaurant this weekend asked me how my daughter kept her glasses on.

And it didn’t hurt because of what she was saying and how she said it,

even though it felt that way at the time;

it hurt because of how I had to answer:

“She keeps them on because she can’t see very well without them.”

It hurts. It hurts that my daughter has eyes that don’t work perfectly. It hurts that at night, when I tuck her into bed, kiss her, and tell her how much I love her, that I have to remove her glasses from her face, stealing her sight from her as she drifts towards slumber.

It breaks my heart.

But in my time out, I realized something else; I am allowed to feel crummy. I am allowed to look into the scariest depths of my anxieties, as long as I can shake them off and go on living. Because the truth is, my daughter can see.

The truth is, she looks adorable in her little pink frames with her magnified eyes.

The truth is, the pregnant woman was probably looking at my daughter with misty eyes because she was thinking,

I can’t believe I will soon have one of those. A child with whom I can walk around and talk and laugh with on a beautiful day. How lucky I am. How lucky they are.

***

And so, this weekend, as we strolled up and down the sidewalk waiting for our food to arrive, I shot a smile down to the woman who had asked about my daughter’s glasses. She didn’t mean any harm, after all. And when Another young couple with a little girl stopped us to say how cute my daughter was, I felt wonderful, and the smile that spread across my face was genuine and bright. And when they complimented her on her adorable glasses and fabulous shoes, I felt happy, as I told them, “Yes, my little girl sure does know how to accessorize an outfit.”

And once again, I felt proud.

Today, I cried. In Ikea.

Originally Published on Little Four Eyes

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve grown to love my baby girl’s glasses.

They help her, they are a tangible solution to a small problem, and they look so darn cute.

I’ve learned to love them so much, that I have stopped thinking about them.

I have accepted them.

They have become a wonderful, valuable, treasured part of my wonderful, valuable treasure.

And then, today happened.

It all started innocently enough. I went to Ikea with my mom and sister (a fellow life-long member of the glasses tribe). We joked our way through the rows of Hemnes and Karslbad  and were having a great time until I came upon a family who was hovered by the Klippan sofa display.

It happened in slow motion.

As I saw the six year old boy spot my daughter,

who was sitting peacefully in her stroller, munching on a soft prezel,

I noticed his hand start to raise as his index finger jutted towards her.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” I wanted to scream, as my ears filled up with the noise of my pounding heart.

“Look at that baaaaaaaaby!”

He shouted, as he pointed, wagging his finger at my daughter’s heart shaped face.

“She has glassssssses! Why does that baaaaaaby have glasses?”

And he did not say it in a nice way.

In fact, he said it in about as mean of a way as someone who wears Spongebob Underpants could muster.

His mother scolded him, and commented how he was being “rude” (Okay, mom. I’m sure he feels terrible about his “rudeness”.) and how he was wrong, that she actually is so cute in her glasses.

Yes. Just like that.

And then my heart shattered in 80 grillion pieces.

I did not say a word. I did not scold the little boy. I did not preach to him. I did not “kill them with kindness”.

I, instead, sought refuge in my sister’s arms,

somewhere between the Kivik chairs and my own personal hell.

And I cried.

My heart ached for my little girl.

This was the first time that she was teased for wearing glasses.

And she had no idea. She just sat eating her pretzel, happy and smiling.

And that made it infinitely worse.

But, my sister, being the wise baby sibling that she is, talked me through it.

She has been wearing glasses since she was two, and she assured me that she has never felt ashamed or bad or silly because of her glasses. Never. Not once. She told me that they are an accessory. That she loved her specs.

And I had no choice but to believe her.

That is what survival is all about.

And so,

I went on with my Ikexcursion, and as I pushed my happy little glasses wearing girl, my heart began to piece itself back together.

And I realized that I will never be able to control what people think or say or how they act. All I can do is to take care of my daughter’s needs, both physical and emotional, in the best way I can.

When she is old enough,

I will not tell her, “Yes, you are bespectacled.”

I will tell her “You are you. You are Bespectacular.”

So when we reached the cash registers

and the nice, young lady behind us made goo-goo eyes at my little girl, I held my breath, but knew I could handle whatever comment she threw our way.

She told me that she loooooved my daughter’s glasses.

I told her that I love them too.

And I do.

So, with dried tears and a full heart, I bought us $1 cone of frozen yogurt. Always be spectacular, I say,

and always treat your little girl to dessert.

Rose Colored Glasses

originally published on Little Four Eyes

It has been 10 days since my sweet girl got her glasses.

On day 1, I hated them.

She looks different. People are looking at her differently. She’s not used to them. Are they uncomfortable? Is she still the same little girl? Of course she’s the same little girl. What is wrong with me? How could I be so shallow? So vain? Will I always feel this way?

These questions,

these fears,

played for me, over and over again,

like a montage in my mind.

In the battle between me and my daughter’s farsightedness,

the glasses were totally kicking my behind.

On Day 2, I decided to take my daughter out for the first time.

Please know that I recognize how silly this sounds. I am a devout believer of inner-beauty and unconditional love, and an advocate for compassion and tolerance. I knew how much worse it could be. Yet, I hated them, still.

And so, I took my little girl to a local farmer’s market. I felt vulnerable. For my girl. For us.

I was scared.

The first person who greeted us smiled at my daughter. “She’s soooo cute!” the woman said.

“HER GLASSES ARE NEW. THIS IS HER FIRST DAY WEARING THEM.” The words spewed from my mouth, so quickly I had scarcely taken a breath. My defenses were up, my sword was drawn, and I would make sure to strike first, before anyone could dare comment on my daughter and her eyewear. I was so scared that people would look at my beautiful little girl and only see glasses. So, in true crazy-person fashion, I headed them off at the pass.

The next person to approach us was a kind, older lady who squealed when she took in the sight of my little one.

“Ooh! My, look at her cute shoes!”

I exhaled. I bit my tongue. Don’t mention her glasses. Don’t make any sudden movements.

“Thank you.” I choked out between my smile of gritted teeth.

“And those glasses! They are adorable!”

I am not sure if was able to muster a thank you before pivoting and scurrying off without my broccoli rabe.

Why was this so hard for me? What was my problem?

And then, around day 3, something amazing started to happen. My little girl began to keep her glasses on all day long. She began to whine or whimper when they would come off. And she started to study her books with a new intensity. She started to say new words. She started doing things she’d never done before. So many things.

And  she started to look like herself again to me.

She was my little girl again. A new version, yes, but certainly a better one. She began to see world around her with new clarity. She could, for the first time, see blades of grass and the tiny spots on a ladybug; she could see my face, beaming with pride.

So now, on day 10, I love her glasses. I appreciate them.

And yes, every time we go out, we get at least a comment or two.

“She looks so precious!”

“I didn’t know they made glasses that small!”

“My daughter also needed glasses as a baby.”

And, the ever-popular,

“How did you know she needed them?”

That one I have fun with.

“Oh, she started to read her sonnets in Spanish instead of French, so we knew her eyes weren’t working properly.”

Or something like that.

So yes, my fears have come true in some ways, because the fact that she wears glasses has become a thing.

But, you know what? Everyone has a thing.

And as far as  things go, I’ll take this one any day of the week.

So, my daughter isn’t the only one seeing the world differently right now.

When I look at her little face, I am reminded to always lead with love,

to give compassion to everyone I meet,

to stop making assumptions based on how things look

and to always,

always,

look on the bright side and stay positive.

Because you know what? Life is much better with a glass(es) have full.

In fact, you just might say that everything looks

rather rosey.

four eyes

Last week, we found out that our sweet girl needs glasses.

She is quite farsighted, in fact.

She was having trouble reading her T.S. Elliot Poems at bedtime, so I decided to have her eyes checked.

Oh. You know I’m kidding. She can read Preludes just fine. It’s her daddy’s car magazines that she’s having trouble wading through. I don’t blame her, actually.

In any case, we started to notice her eye turning in,

which happens to be exactly what happened to my mom at 3 years old

and my sister at 2 years old,

so we took her to a wonderful eye doctor and low and behold my baby needs glasses.

This news rocked me.

The rational, sensible, adult part of me accepted it with a smile,

while every other part of me was screaming “No! I don’t want them!”

They’re just glasses. Many people (including many people I love) have them.

But, to me, they’re a (n albeit small) challenge for her. They will, as my best friend said, make life only 1% more difficult for her, but that’s 1% more than I’m comfortable with.

And so, I’m looking inward, mustering up all of my strength, and trying to cope with this situation with a sound mind

and clear eyes.

All four of them.

There’s my one eye,

my scared eye,

that worries for her. Will this make life hard for her? Will she be sad that she can’t just jump in the pool without worrying about being able to see in the water? Will her eyes get worse? Will she feel bad about being the only kid in preschool with glasses on her face? Will she resent her glasses? Will they make her cry? Worse, will other kids make her cry?

And then, there’s my shallow eye.

My eye that sees my daughter, my beautiful, precious little girl, with the most perfect angel face, and the most soulful “Atlantic Ocean eyes” and thick, long black lashes, that will now be covered in a pair of little wire frames. Will the lenses distort her eyes? When people look at her, will they see only glasses? Will she only be known as the girl with the glasses? Will she be “cute, despite” them? Why do I care? Why can’t I get past this?

And then there’s my ashamed eye.

I’m the one who celebrates differences. I am the one who stands up for equality and tolerance. I am the one who preaches about acceptance and beauty that comes from the inside out. And yet, I am the one who is worried about the way my daughter will feel and look and think. I’m the one, who when I am being really, deeply candid, cares what other people will think. I am ashamed to say this, but it is the truth.

And then there’s my grateful eye. The eye that sees, so vividly, how lucky we are. We have a problem that has a solution (as my dear colleague reminded me yesterday). So what. They’re glasses. They will help her to see. We have a great doctor, and wonderful friends, and the resources to buy her whatever glasses she chooses. She has a tiny problem. Her problem has a cure. For that, I feel so very blessed.

Four eyes, all in conflict inside of me, sitting together like a lead weight in my gut as I stare at my little girl, and want only the easiest, most perfect, happy life for her. When I ask my sister, who has been wearing glasses for over 20 years, if she ever felt bad about herself because of her glasses she laughs, and reminds me of how cute she was.

She was known as the girl with the big, red Mickey Mouse glasses,

but also as the girl who woke up whistling because she was so happy,

and who always was surrounded by friends

and boyfriends

and was showered with more love than she knew what to do with.

And so, I’m going to try my very best to quiet my worries,

to assuage my anxieties,

and to keep on showering my baby with all of the love that I can muster.

I am going to look into her eyes,

now magnified by her tiny lenses,

and tell her how beautiful she is,

how smart she is,

how everyone who meets her loves her,

and how she makes my heart sing.

How proud of her I am.

How I cherish every part of her,

including all four of her cute, little eyes.

And, I am going to continue to give her as many bites of my Key Lime Pie gelato as she likes.

Yes, from here on out it’s eyes bright, heart light and glass(es) half full.