Check Me Into the Nursing Home

Six months ago, after the birth, I had my eyes examined and loved the idea that pregnancy had actually improved my vision.

In the past few weeks, however, I have felt like my eyesight was not as sharp as it should be; today I finally hired a baby sitter to watch Raphaela while I went to the optometrist. After close to 20 minutes of subtle and comprehensive testing, the doctor gave me the diagnosis I had suspected and then denied to myself: I am old, that is to say, over the age of 40. I need reading glasses, over and above my contact lenses.

Boy, am I depressed. Here I am, the mother of a one year old, and I need reading glasses. My mother has reading glasses.

(Ironically, if a patient of mine had come into the office with the same complaints I experienced, I would have immediately told them that most humans between the age of 40-45 will need reading glasses. And I would have encouraged my patients that they don't look "old" and should not take it personally.)

Of course my new frames will be stylish and modern, because I accept this development with grace and fashion. But when I arrived home and Raphaela came rushing over to me, I said, "Come here to your aged mother. We have to pick out a nursing home that will allow children."

I laughed, my baby sitter laughed with me.