Big, Black Frames

Today, he got glasses. (My son, Asher, that is.) And his five-year-old face swooned with pride, not about the glasses themselves necessarily but about the case with its accompanying cleaning spray and silky smooth cloth. Upon seeing said spray, the boy asks, “Can I use this in the tub, Mom?” (Ah, no.)

Once in the parking lot, that surprising joy turned to a quivering bottom lip, followed by little droplets that fell onto his brand new lenses. Taking off the big, black frames that had stayed on his tiny face for only ten steps past the store, I wanted to cry too. Quickly scanning the surroundings, I spotted hope in the distance, a crowded Chipotle during lunchtime rush hour. (Phew. A burrito can temporarily solve most of the world’s problems at five or forty-two.) For thirty luxurious minutes, we indulged happily, as the glasses lay quietly on the table. After all, “We don’t want to get the glasses dirty, right Mom?” (Yeah, right kid. You bet.)

I never thought my boy would need glasses – at five – but I can’t change that even despite how many more tears arrived at naptime. “It’s not fair. I don’t want glasses,” he sobbed, holding onto Cragger, the stuffed crocodile. “I know,” I said.

And as I sang him a lullaby or two, stroking a soft smudge of ashen blonde hair, he drifted off to sleep. I held and held and held onto his little hand, watching his eyes flutter and did not get up to leave until after a smile had broken across his dreaming face.

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