Somehow I ended up downstairs this morning without contacts or glasses. I have been told that I am legally blind, and while I don’t know exactly what that means, I assume it’s a technical term for you-can’t-see-worth-shit-so-don’t-drive-or-otherwise-put-yourself-or-anyone-else-in-danger-by-doing-something-that-requires-passable-vision. Does cleaning up the pee Gabriel informed me he squirted everywhere but the toilet count?
As I have been spending hours glued to my screen working on a copyediting job and my eyes haven’t quite adjusted to the unaccustomed strain (many attempts to remedy this include giant text, a dimmer screen setting, new contact solution changed out for my old standby contact solution, and glasses glasses glasses), my Monet-like blindness was actually a welcome, restful change. Because I couldn’t focus on anything farther than a foot from my face, I didn’t. Gabriel cuddled up to me on the couch, and the two of us happily drifted awake on our orange boat of a coach across the hardwood sea.
What I could see was his hair, blond curls never cut. My fingers played with them in the same way my mind was moving—a strange kind of absentminded presence. And so the day began.
That’s all I’ve got, except to say we’re still here and that I’m busy trying to bring in a little extra dough. Family comes next week and the boys are beside themselves with excitement. G makes lists of the things he wants to do/share with his cousin Molly (last night it was the Kipper episode where they go to the beach). O yes, and bubbles.