August 7

On Tuesday you survived Hurricane Edouard! (It’s funny because, as usual, there was a whole lot of fuss but it barely even rained.) Your glasses were delivered around noon. I was so excited, I just about ran over to St. Luke’s, paid for them, and immediately put them on your face. Then you threw up. Whether it was because of the glasses or bad timing, I don’t know. The optometrist says that often happens to adults when they first put on such a strong prescription. So we got all cleaned up, changed your clothes, changed your sheets, and put them back on your face. Then you fell asleep.

I was disappointed. I don’t know what I was expecting. I knew there wasn’t going to be a moment where you looked at me and I saw a dawn of recognition on your face. But I was hoping you would be curious enough to try to see through them. I wasn’t expecting you to love them. But I was expecting them to fit well enough to not agitate you too much. They are the smallest size glasses come in, but they are still too large on you. I need to get creative on how I am going to keep them on your face. When the doctor told me contacts were easier for babies I thought he was crazy; now I am beginning to see what he meant. You do not care for them at all.

In fact, Tuesday you and I had our first power struggle. I wanted you to wear the glasses, and you did not. I had never heard your angry cry before—you are such an easy going baby. But that afternoon you were not happy with me. I held you as you bucked and screamed and thrashed your head around. Eventually you wore yourself out and gave up. I make it sound like a huge ordeal, when in actuality it only lasted a few brief moments. But when trying to stand my ground, it felt like forever. I am determined to win the “Battle of the Glasses”. I want you to know that wearing them is not negotiable and that throwing a fit will not convince me to take them off.

I was so impressed with how strong I was—until later that evening when my resolve faded. At night, as Daddy and I were tucking you into bed before we left, your anger turned into pain. I couldn’t tell if the glasses were giving you a headache, irritating your nose or head, or something completely unrelated. All I knew was that you weren’t feeling good and the glasses weren’t making anything easier for you. You have such a sad little cry when you are hurting. One thing I never expected from motherhood is how I physically feel your pain. When you have a bad case of reflux, I feel nauseous. After a surgery I am exhausted and achy. Your new glasses give me a headache. (Your ophthalmologist said that babies don’t ever get headaches from glasses. No matter if they are a strong prescription, weak prescription, wrong prescription. I can’t figure out how he could possibly know this. I bet he tells all the mothers that to make them feel better.) I had to fight back tears while you were crying, and struggled with the decision on whether I should save you from the glasses. I want to give you the best chance to have good vision, which means keeping glasses on at all times. But I want to do everything in my power to make you comfortable and happy. I felt like you were confused as to why I wouldn't help you. Tough love is so hard. As my internal battle raged, you fell asleep and saved me from myself.

The last couple of days have been easier. The first time I caught you peeking at me, my heart melted, knowing you can actually see me back. You are slowly getting used to the glasses. They don’t stay put well, but I am working on that. You do a fairly good job of focusing, although tracking is a ways off. In the mornings when I come to your bedside, I can tell you recognize me by my voice. I can’t wait for the day when you recognize me by sight.