My 10 year old daughter Emme has a hard time keeping up with her possessions. Mostly because she inherited the slob gene passed down from one of her parent’s who shall remain nameless. But let’s just say that his name rhymes with Middledaddy.
When Emme discovered she needed glasses, she joyfully selected frames that carried a price tag of around $150. Her parents, on the other hand, joyfully steered her away from those frames, and found instead a suitable pair that cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $38. Handy carrying case included.
Because we knew that the likelihood that she would retain her glasses before the prescription changed was not good. I am forever finding her glasses unattended, and void of their case.
To say that it’s an issue around here, is an understatement.
This morning, Fiddledaddy found Emme straining to read on the couch. “Emme, where are your glasses?” She glanced at the empty case laying beside her, “Um, I dunno. (yelling) CAILEY, DID YOU TAKE MY GLASSES?”
Cailey, who has never shown any interest, nor has she ever touched the glasses, hollered back with indignance, “NOOOOO!”
Nice try Emme. The deflecting of the blame. That never gets old.
The hunt for the spectacles was on. I heard her rummaging through all her worldly possessions in each room. I knew from all of the sighs of dismay, the glasses were nowhere to be found. After a good long exhaustive search, she resorted to whining. My personal favorite.
I’d had enough. I had been quietly working on my computer for the last hour while I listened to all of this play out. I went out to have a talk with Emme about keeping track of her things, and that money doesn’t grow on trees, and how I had to walk 20 miles in the snow to get to school. UP HILL. BOTH WAYS.
I began my spiel, and she looked at me wide eyed. “THERE THEY ARE. THERE ARE MY GLASSES, MOM. YOU’RE WEARING MY GLASSES. NO WONDER I COULDN’T FIND THEM!”
“Whaaat?” I took off the glasses that I’d been wearing all morning. Sure enough, they were hers. Then Fiddledaddy decided to get back in on the action.
“You were wearing her glasses, which are a prescription, and you didn’t know they weren’t your reading glasses?”
“Well,” I offered, “No wonder I couldn’t see what I was doing.”
This is when Fiddledaddy’s head exploded brain matter all over the wall.
You see, he has an issue with me and my glasses. I have several pair that I leave in strategic positions all over the house. And every pair is filthier than the last. I’m like Pig Pen with glasses. It doesn’t matter how careful I am, or how often I clean them, all I have to do is even think about touching a pair of glasses and they somehow become useless with grime.
I can’t explain it. Seriously, I can’t.
And heaven forbid if I dare to touch Fiddledaddy’s glasses. THAT’S when the fireworks REALLY begin.
Emme took her glasses back in a huff, and headed in the general direction of the Windex. I hollered after her, “MAYBE YOU SHOULD KEEP THEM IN THE CASE WHERE THEY BELONG.”
And I returned to my desk and put on another pair of glasses. Which were just as disgustingly dirty. I set about working on my computer, having no idea what I was typing since everything was just one big smudgy blur.
Which frankly, I think that may only enhance my blogging. The rose colored glasses idiom? Alive and working well.