Another Test in Patience

Ok, it was supposed to be an eye exam, but Henry finds all kinds of ways to get me riled up. Plus it was four p.m., a time when he really should have been at home making me crazy instead of at the optometrist's. They really ought to come up with something over the counter for moms who're going through the "what's this what's that why why why" phase of five year old boys. I know, they've already got something and it's called booze, but I'm a non-drinker, so there goes that. The million question marathon started early this morning and I got a two hour break while Henry was at joy school, then it started again when I picked him up, quieted a little so he could cram in some lunch, cranked back up when we went to the store, then went into full blast at the optometrist's office.

I believe with all my heart that Henry flunked the vision test at the pediatrician's simply by being Henry. He's like a honey bee, buzzing from one thing to the next, and if the thing he's presented with isn't full of sweet, sweet nectar, he's not giving it the time of day. He plays along at first and then my son, Henry, whose vision is sharp enough to tell me that the B.J.'s sign had a broken b, that Wal-mart was the store with the star on it, tells the chick with the eye chart that everything is fuzzy. Of course, it's fuzzy. Fuzzy means your eyes are bad and you need glasses, which Henry wants desperately. Being a little liar, albeit a cute one, he's also bouncing all over the place, looking everywhere but where he's told. I have to hold his head still so they can used the machine to see how his eyes are focusing, but that was hardly helpful since he kept looking away every time she tried to run the test. Then the optometrist does her thing and I'm thinking to myself what a huge waste of time the trip was. Not a bit surprised when she says he doesn't need glasses.

Henry was disappointed, though. At the the check out counter he whined and insisted that his eyes were bad and he needed glasses, so the clerk gave him some of those plastic rolled-up disposable sunglasses for when you get your eyes dilated. That helped a little. Then another office lady asked him who his favorite basketball team was and because he knows his Dad hates Carolina (Ben's a NC State fan, which by definition means you have to hate UNC), said North Carolina was his favorite. The office lady gave him a little blue basketball.

"Oh, Henry. You're going to make Daddy mad when he sees that."

Henry grins with evil delight.

When we get home he races inside with the ball. "Dad! Look!"