Right now, at 8.30pm, Monkey is the golden child. He's basically a miracle baby. This is because he's asleep. B says goodnight, Monkey lies down, closes his eyes, and goes to sleep. Then he stays asleep until tomorrow morning. (And then he wakes up B, not me.) He's everything I ever dreamed of in a child. (Back when I used to get to dream.)
Mabel, in contrast, is the demon child. She's still awake. She escaped and ran downstairs twice. She wanted books. She didn't want books. She wanted little Batman. She wanted mumeet. She wanted the big side. She wanted the other side. She wanted the other big side. She wanted to play with her doll's house. She wanted medicine because her tooth hurt. I'm hoping it kicks in soon and she lets me put her to sleep, because I'm tired and I have other things to do, like taking pictures of my new glasses and posting them on Facebook.
At her naptime this afternoon, Monkey disturbed my Very Special Quiet Time - during an ad break, because that's what he does during my quiet time - to insist that I send a message on my computer to the people who make plastic because he'd figured out, for once and for definite this time, how to fly. He just needs big plastic wings, five big, that I can ask the people to make to his exact specifications, which involve the very important detail that they need to be as sharp as the edge of a door. I clicked a link to read about how Queen Liz on her historic visit to Dublin didn't drink her complementary pint of Guinness but Prince Philip nearly did - clearly the much-needed light relief; now I understand his role and why he makes famously silly comments - it's because One is so terribly terribly serious and solemn and queenly all the time - and Monkey, in great relief, announced: "That's it. Done." I don't think he understands how Internet commerce works at all.
Anyway. My glasses. When last we left this thrilling train of thought, I was hurtling towards maybe possibly finding out about getting laser surgery. Then the nice man from the laser surgery people rang me back to say that I couldn't even have the initial examination to see if I was a candidate until six months after I'd stopped breastfeeding. Well. Since that won't happen till the middle of the century or so, I went the more sensible route and booked a local eye exam with a view (har) to getting new glasses after all.
I dumped Mabel on a helpful friend (who let her spend the morning sitting on the front lawn watering a ceramic frog and most of her own clothing with the hose attachment, but heck, it was warm and she was happy, and the frog was very clean by the end of it) and went off unencumbered to look at red lights and green lights and points of light and wiggly lines in my peripheral vision as well as the traditional ever-decreasing A D F S thingies, and it turned out that rather than being a mere two years since my last pair of glasses, it was more like four. (Actually, he said, "Your last visit was in '07," and it took me several moments to figure out what that meant and where it was in relation to the present day.) So I felt totally vindicated in going the whole hog and ordering a pair of prescription sunglasses too, to replace the ones I use in the car that are probably ten years old and perhaps I'm guilty of missing things I should be seeing, like maybe other cars or short people or speed-limit signage.
And now I have, for perhaps the first time in my life, a pair of glasses that look pretty good. Cool, even. They're not trying to blend in and disappear: I decided it was time to embrace the sexy librarian within and be a Girl Who Wears Glasses without shame. They're purple, to boot. (I would take a photo but the daylight is gone. Maybe tomorrow.)
What's more, everything is sharper. I'm not sure how much I should be celebrating the fact that now I'll be able to see more clearly just exactly how badly my bathroom floors need to be cleaned.