Tuesday, March 1, 2011
4:45am: Riley wakes up…screaming as usual.
5:02am: I take the first sip of what will be three large cups of coffee. I watch “Bethenney Ever After” on the DVR while Riley chugs his peach Kefir.
5:15am: Dylan wakes up. Most likely, Riley’s crying woke him from a deep sleep and then he realized he was alone in the bedroom and then he was afraid of being alone in the bedroom.
6:15am: I inform Dylan that he’s not going to school today. Instead, he’s going to the eye doctor. I tell him there will be no shots and nothing will hurt. I hold my breath waiting for his response. Instead of crying and saying “No thank you,” which is Dylan’s adorably polite way of saying “there is no #%$@& way I’m doing that,” he says “Okay, Mommy. Can I wear 3D glasses?” I exhale, realizing I’ve dodged a bullet for now, and say “maybe” about the 3D glasses (I have no idea) and pour another cup of coffee.
8:50am: Dylan and I drop Riley off at school.
9:15am: We check in at the eye doctor. I’m incredibly relieved that the television in the waiting room is playing Shrek instead of Finding Nemo because Dylan is terrified of that movie and it’s always on whenever we walk into a doctor’s office and the result is always miserable.
9:47am: They call our name. Not bad since our appointment was scheduled for 9:30. Dylan does some eye “games” with a nice woman named Melissa. He identifies some pictures, including a cake, which makes him happy. He traces numbers in a book with his finger, and believe it or not, he gets to wear 3D glasses and identify pictures that pop out at him.
Then – BOOM – Melissa leans him back, forces his eyes open and gives him drops to dilate his eyes. No warning. No chance for Dylan to say, “No %#$&@ thank you.” No opportunity for me to get nervous and ask if I can help. She’s lightening fast. Dylan is stunned but fine. Melissa is a genius.
I’m reminded of Dylan’s four-year check-up when the nurse told him he needed two shots and then disappeared more than 15 minutes. By the time she returned (with no apology), Dylan was in the throws of a panic attack so intense that we needed two nurses plus me to hold him down for the shots. She was not a genius.
9:57am: We’re back to the waiting room waiting for full dilation. Dylan says, “Mommy, I can’t see my shoes. Mommy, I can’t see your shoes.” He sounds like he’s tripping. I giggle and tell him his eyes will feel better soon.
10:15am: The doctor exams Dylan. One of the pictures on the wall that he asks Dylan to focus on is Ronald McDonald. Dylan has never been to McDonald’s yet he recognizes Ronald McDonald. This makes me think (1) the office needs an update – who cares about Ronald McDonald anymore and (2) McDonald’s is mysteriously marketing to my kid. Hmm. Thankfully, the doctor tells us Dylan’s eyesight is great and there’s no need for glasses. This is good news because I’m the only person in my family and Mike’s who doesn’t wear glasses. Looks like Dylan inherited my anxiety and my eyesight.
10:35am: Quick stop at Whole Foods is successful, except for the sippy cup that Dylan leaves in the shopping cart. Oops.
12:40pm: We pick up Riley at school and Dylan tells everyone – and I mean everyone –that he can’t see. I explain to each confused person that his eyes are merely dilated.
12:50pm: We’re on our way to Target to grab a few things, including a new sippy cup.
1:10pm: Dylan and Riley are hitting each other and screaming in the shopping cart. I threaten not to buy sippy cups unless they stop. They stop. Then they start again. I am that mother with those kids in Target.
1:25pm: Dylan cons me into buying him a toy. I know, I know. Bad Shopaholic Mama! I insist he can have one car…if he stops screaming. Another momentary victory. (In case I didn’t inform you, he likes Cars again. In fact, you should know that he doesn’t love Toy Story anymore. At all.) Dylan and Riley each get one car.
1:35pm: Dylan and Riley take turns throwing their new cars out of the shopping cart and onto the floor as we wait in line to pay. They do this at least a dozen times before I end it. I take the cars away and they scream. People are staring. I find a happy place. I say to the cashier, “Do these children belong to you? I’ve never seen them before.” She laughs. I laugh. I’m too tired to care.
1:50pm: Both kids are fast asleep before we even leave the parking lot. I wish I could join them. Instead, I drive home and hope for smooth transfers to the couch (Dylan) and the bed (Riley) and for a chance to recoup before my next shift. Tick Tock.