The doctor scribbled a prescription and handed it to me. "Yep, he needs glasses." I already knew but I still stared at him and fumbled with my words. I'd seen his eye crossing watching PJ Masks, the tired eyes at bedtime, the rubbing. I felt grateful we caught it early, he's only four, but guilty. I'd also worn glasses at four, actually at three. Big bulky bifocals in plastic peach, so thick you could barely see my eyes. I hated my glasses. Purposely tried to break them, hide them, pretend I didn't need them. I needed them. I hated the way they fogged up when I climbed on the school bus on a winter morning, the way they magnified my eyes, the way my skin under glass never darkened. I was the only child with glasses that thick and I hated them. An already shy child, glasses became circles I could hide behind.
By fourth grade, I got contacts. I'd been doing my own laundry and decorating my room and tilling the garden (with my Dad's help) for years. My parents agreed I could handle it. It was the best day of my life. I remember everything about that day at the Moran Eye Center, seeing clearly the first time. Contacts pulled me out of my shell. I spoke more loudly, more often. In a couple years, I beat Jason (who I also had a crush one) for Captain at Space Camp. I memorized all the countries in the world and made a group of best friends. My feet did not grow.
Now I opt to wear my glasses, sometimes. No more bifocals, and a much lighter prescription. For now. I feel pretty and comfortable; a little more shy, but sometimes I like that.
He likes his glasses. They're off and on, twirling in his fingers, slipping down his nose, perched on his forehead. He's four. When I catch a glance of him, his beauty takes me off guard. Is that why I looked like? He looks so beautiful, his bright blue eyes and long lashes magnified by the +4 prescription. I stare at him in wonder. Is this how my mother and father saw me? Is this how my mother and father see me?