Are They Made From Real Girl Scouts?

You know I hate being right, but let me just take a moment to say "I told you so."

October has already delivered in a big way, and we're just getting started.   Oh, the gifts of October.

Let me give you the highlights.

The donuts.  I'm telling you, I felt like an all-powerful wizard pulling these babies out of the oil, all fluffy and golden and perfect.  David was in charge of the glazing.  The kids were in charge of the eating.  We thought about taking some to the neighbors, but we were on day two-and-a-half of life in our pajamas, and so we ended up just eating them ourselves.  It was easier than getting dressed.

The netflix.  We have a brilliant October queue going and are already six titles in.  I love it when my goals include watching a movie every day.  What can I say?  I like to push myself. 

The bangs.  Yesterday I sat in the chair at the salon and told the girl to cover up the gray and then shave my head.  She gave me bangs instead, and...oh baby.  Who knew the answer to troublesome bangs was more bangs?  All the kids took notice,  "Wo!  Did you get a haircut?" but David just smiled and made out with me to show his approval.  Nicely done.

The quilting.  On Monday morning I got a surprise package in the mail.  Any surprise is nice on a Monday, but this box was especially good.  It had a quilt my cousin, Maika, just finished quilting for me.  The quilt pattern is called "Storm at Sea" but  because we made it at quilt retreat this year, it reminds me of nothing but safe harbors.

The rest.  Savannah and Caleb have been home this week and I could not be happier.  They have slept late, caught up on Curious George and Arthur and finally watched the Top Chef Masters finale.  We went to the gym, to the bookstore, to lunch, and to the thrift store to scout out Halloween costume parts.  There has been time to read and nap and talk.  It has been delightful in every way.  Yesterday after Ethan finished his school day, he and Savannah made a game of "Ultimate Hopscotch" and came in and reported that it was finally cool enough to play outside.  I'm telling you, October, your gifts are endless. 

The word.  I am most grateful after Conference for the reminders of God's love, of his ever-watchful concern over me and mine, and for the evidence that it is always so, even when I am blinded by the veil and the mists and the tears of earth life.  I found the answers I needed, a way to keep going, and solid footing in a sea of doubts. 

Looks Like We Made It. Sort Of.

Well.  We made it. 

Today marks an arrival of sorts. 

The end of the week.  Whew.  No bra til Monday.  I still have to go grocery shopping, but maybe I'll start this a little early.  Give 'em all a thrill.  I do what I can.

The beginning of fall break.  For half of my children anyway.  It is the start of a week of sleeping late and Halloween movies day and night and a few leisurely trips to the bookstore.  They've earned it.  I've earned it.  And best of all, it means we're halfway done with half of it. 

The end of a long six months (though it's really the last two months that kill you) and the advent of Conference weekend.  My tank is empty.  My heart is hard.  My soul is scorched.   I am ready for the dews of heaven.  In fact, go ahead and drown me.  And my sorrows.

The beginning of winter grass.  The bermuda grass is going dormant and it's time to overseed.  Which means that the temperature is finally dropping below 70 degrees at night.  Which makes it almost bearable.  In the mornings.  From four until six.  Mercy be. 

What I've figured out is that I'm really bad at endurance.  I am good at passionate beginnings (oh am I!) and fervent endings (especially if it involves crying!), but the long, monotonous, solitary, unglamorous middles are so trying.

David told me I should write down my questions before Conference.  To find some answers.  He would love me to find some answers.  Here's what I came up with. 

How can I be happy? 

What is the purpose of my life? 

You know, little things.  Monstrous, engulfing, debilitating questions that have been dogging me for years, really.  They just burn and scrape and ache the most every autumn.  I am besieged.  I am lost. 

 What should I do?

Can you help? 

Things I Overheard This Weekend

By all accounts, it was a perfect birthday-celebrating weekend.

I packed the car with six sleeping bags and not nearly enough warm clothing and we headed north. 

I had several people ask me, "Where are you going camping?" 

Pause.  "Um, in the mountains?" 

They smiled.  "Ya, but where?" 

We don't make those kinds of plans when it comes to camping.  I figured we'd just drive until the sagebrush and cactus turned into scrub pine and juniper and then keep driving until those pretenders turned into real forest, and then we'd pull over and pitch our tent. 

Which is what we did.  Right on the edge of the Mogollon Rim.   David was so proud.

We got there just as the dark was starting to settle in and the stars were making their showy debut. 

On this trip we discovered several things:

• an ax is a useful tool to have when you're camping (we did not)
• a working camp stove is also a useful tool to have (again, we did not).  Unfortunately, if the camp stove doesn't work, it doesn't even matter that you were smart enough to remember to pack it.  
• air mattresses pop when hot lanterns get tipped over on them.  And the loud woosh of air leaving the mattress is the sound of your good night's sleep blowing away.
• no matter how hot it is in the valley, there are still places on earth where the temperature drops below 90 degrees.  (Way below.)  Somehow I always forget this, and we spent most of the trip huddled around the fire together, wishing I had remembered the coats rather than the camp stove. 
• the milky way is jaw-droppingly stunning against a dark night sky.  It was like someone opened a window to eternity and I thought, "Oh yeah, that's what it's all about."

And now, for my favorite quotes from the weekend.  They tell the whole story... 

"And now, for a few ghost stories..."  [Ethan, after the fire was roaring]

"Have you heard of 'CO'?"  [Caleb, on explaining to David why the propane heater should not be on in the tent]

"Does that mean we're going to die?"  [Savannah, who, apparently, has heard of CO]

"Don't worry about it," I said, "we're not going to die.  And if we do, we'll just all wake up tomorrow in the celestial kingdom."  [Me, perhaps over-optimistically (let's be honest) settling the issue]

 "We ought to do this more often because we're not very good at it."  [Savannah, making a fair point]

"I love this so much."  [Ethan, just before sleep in the dark tent] 

"I'm actually surprised dinner tasted so good last night.  Even though Mom cooked it on the fire."  [Ethan, speaking confidentially to Olivia over the morning fire]

"Wow, I'm about as bad as BYU."  [Savannah, after she had dropped three football passes in a row]

"You read about a lot of love triangles."  [Ethan, regarding Olivia's latest book]

"This isn't a love triangle.  It's a love square.  You wouldn't understand."   [Olivia, who else?]

And finally, we returned home to shower and wash the smoke out of our clothes and prep for Olivia's party.  She had her first boy/girl party with food and games and a rousing round of iPod Idol.  I overheard one of the boys asking,

"Why do you have Halloween decorations up?  It's not even October." 

Olivia said, "Ya, my mom doesn't really like September." 

"Why?" 

"It's complicated." 

And there you have it.  

            Easily my favorite mental image of the weekend.  We should live in the mountains just for the long underwear.

The Last Week of September, By the Numbers

Oh, September, get going already.

It's no secret that September and I have never gotten along.  And this year was worse than usual.  I think it is no coincidence that September starts with the same letters as Satan and sadistic and stupid and sorrow and self-pity and suck.  So there. 

But the last week of September does have a few redeeming qualities, namely that  one, September is almost over, and, two, that a couple of my children were born at the end of it.  And speaking of numbers, here are a few more: 

1.  At 8:30 last Tuesday night, Olivia told me that she needed a poodle skirt for school the next day.  Trouble was, I didn't happen to have two yards of colored felt on hand and at that time of night I didn't have the heart to face Joann's (which is difficult even when you're feeling 100%, let's be honest).  And so I looked through my cupboards and found what I thought was a decent substitute: quilt batting.  Ahem.  Brilliant, I know.  (I blame it on September.  I told you it was stupid.)  I whipped up a poodle skirt with ric rac and everything.  Trouble was, quilt batting is not actually felt and it also does not possess the same qualities as felt, and so it began to stretch apart when she sat.  I could foresee a tragedy of monumental proportions at school the next day when she stood up after Algebra.  Skirt made of batting x school day = Absolute naked.  So I whipped up another one.  Yes, that's right.  2 poodle skirts in 1 night.  The next morning when David dropped her off at school, Olivia noticed that no one else had dressed up.  Zero high-schoolers thought 50's Day was a good idea.  This had not occurred to Olivia, who thinks everything is a good idea.  She asked David to take her home to change.  He wisely (remembering my two-poodle-skirt-effort the night before) encouraged her out of the car.  I got this picture texted to me later.  Luckily, the cutest guy at school also thought 50's Day was a great idea.

2.  Last week we became a three-car family.  I told David that I thought I'd be old when we had three cars.  He just looked at me.  Because...um...we are old.  Apparently.  David loves having a third car almost more than Caleb does because it has eliminated his 5:30 drive to early morning seminary.  As for me, no one ever told me about the abject, all-consuming fear that would become a permanent part of my life once my children started driving themselves around.   

3.  Ethan turns 10 this week and Olivia turns 15.  There will be 1 chocolate cake and 1 lemon pie and 25 candles.  There will be a camping trip with 1 bonfire, 6 sleeping bags, and a billion stars.  And we will watch the waning moon cross the sky and mark another year on earth with these 2 beautiful children.  I will never get over how fast it really goes.

4.  Last week I spent 8 hours in the emergency room with a friend who had an ectopic pregnancy.  My own experience, twelve years ago this September, has been on my mind a lot since then.  I have replayed those days and weeks over in my mind and have been left to simply conclude that the preservation of my life was nothing short of miraculous, Ethan's arrival 2 years later was nothing short of divine intervention, and I have been deeply humbled, once again, by the mercy of God.

5.  For the next two weeks, David is the acting CEO at the hospital, while his boss is out of town.  This has not changed any of our lives in any way, but David has been delighted about it.  I told him he should do a performance evaluation on the vice president (David's current job) and give that guy a raise.

6.  When we moved into this house, I moved the girls into a shared queen bed.  Because of the configuration of the room, there just wasn't room for two twin beds.  Two and a half years later and the queen bed just wasn't working.  The girls were uncomfortable, someone was always on someone else's side of the bed, or someone would steal all the covers in the night, or it was always someone else's turn to the make the bed, and on and on and on.  I was determined to find a solution.  We had a conference.  I got opinions from people smarter than me.  We talked about it.  We googled it.  We called in the acting CEO.  We thought about having Ethan switch rooms, we thought about turning the loft into a bedroom, we thought about repainting, rearranging, and, briefly, even about moving.  (I told you September was stupid.)  Finally I decided to make a really tall headboard and cover an outside door.  This made enough wall space to put in two twin beds.  While I was at it, I made a couple of upholstered bed frames to match.  (I don't know how my mother ever did her job without online tutorials.)   Honestly, I feel about as proud about the whole thing as if I had personally separated conjoined twins. 

7.  Lastly and leastly, after months of waiting, we are all happy that season 4 of The Middle starts tonight.  We've had to get by on months of Food Network and netflixing old BBC crime dramas, and are completely delighted that real television is starting again.   

And with that, I am shaking off the shroud of September.  Come, thou Great October, with your promises of Conference weekend, hot chocolate with salted caramel, a BYU homecoming game, spooky movie marathons, homemade donuts and spicy goulash, fall in the mountains, and a little green face paint.

Only five more days, September.  Your number's up.

The Case Against Eden

David and I were in the temple last night and so this morning the lone and dreary world seemed worse than usual.

"I hate the lone and dreary world," I said from my side of the bed.  "It's lonely.  And dreary." 

David only sighed.  He knew where this was going. 

And so I ranted on my own for a bit and then went to find our children.   

Breakfast, scriptures, lunches, practicing, hair.  In that order.   

And then out the door.  The lone and dreary world was waiting. 

We went to the bus stop.  The world was about to get lonelier and drearier.   

And then Ethan told us that today was international talk-like-a-pirate day and tried out a few sentences littered with 'Black Pearl' and 'golden doubloon' references.  Savannah and I grinned.  When he got out of the car he said, "Love you," in his best piratey brogue.

We laughed out loud and Savannah whispered privately, "That pirate sounds a lot like cookie monster." 

I was filled with pure, unadulterated delight.  And suddenly, getting the lone and dreary world in exchange for the chance at joy and rejoicing in your posterity seemed like the best trade in the world.  It made me wonder if the Serpent mentioned nine-year-old boys in his list of reasons to taste the forbidden fruit.  

I'm thinking it probably sealed the deal. 

Self-Doubt and a Black-Eye

 [This really should have been four separate posts.  Bear with me.]

It is the season of self doubt.

By the time the heat has gone, and the pumpkins have been carved, and the days have shortened enough to have candles at dinner, things will bet settled.  I will have reached an even keel, a rhythm to this hurry-up, task-filled life.  And I will be okay. 

But between now and then, it is the season of self-doubt.  Where every decision I make, and every decision I have ever made, must be hashed, and rehashed, questioned, and requestioned, cried about, and yes, recried about.   I worry that I'm not doing enough and, simultaneously, that I'm doing too much.  I wonder if my kids are in the right place, if I'm in the right place, if there is a right place.  I fret over our time--the time apart, the limited time together, the time I can't get back.  And on and on.  It's a whole thing. 

Last week, after a particularly hard day, Ethan started sobbing halfway through his piano lesson.  His teacher looked over at me, alarmed, looking for reassurance or answers, only to find that I was crying too.   

Things are truly desperate. 

Last night I came home from a Relief Society meeting to find David just starting on the dishes.  I said, "How did things go?" 

"Fine," he said, completely unconvincingly. 

"What do you mean?" 

And then he told me.  There were kids to pick up.  There was dinner to put on.  There were three people who needed help with their math.  And in the middle of it, four calls from the hospital.   "It was crazy," he concluded.

I smiled.  "Welcome to my world," I didn't say.

But later, in bed, he told me how Caleb had asked a girl on a date.  For the first time.  And how he had overheard the whole thing.  I asked for every detail, the play-by-play, which David is so good at.  (I would have married him just for his conversation play-by-plays.  They are that good.)   I laughed and curled my toes and sighed in all the right parts.  And then we sat there marveling about how our boy had grown up and was now living his own life.   Just like that.

And that is the thing about the season of self-doubt.  You feel a little like Charles Dickens is writing your life story.  It is the best of times and the worst of times, all at once.  Right in the middle of all the hustling horror, there are these glimmers of glory that remind you that this is the way it has to be in order for your kids to grow up and grow out and live their own lives.   And that, really, there is no other way. 

Because last week amid the hustle and the tears, there was also a birthday party for Savannah.  Somehow she turned thirteen.  All by herself.  And we sang and I even figured out how to bake a cake and she made a wish and blew out all the candles.  And as much as a part of me sat there wishing she was still a chubby little four-year-old standing in front of me as I curl her bob and tie her pigtails, I wouldn't have taken a single candle off that cake.  She is beautiful and strong and smart and good.  She gave the lesson in her young women's class on Sunday and absolutely refused our help.  I asked for the highlights afterwards and was nothing but amazed at her testimony and her ability to create connections between the principles she taught and the experiences of her own life.  I just sat there at the dinner table stunned and a little awed.   

Also last week, I took Caleb to the DMV and after about four hours and four thousand fervent prayers (on my part), he emerged with his license and a new sense of independence.  On Friday, when I was throwing a part for Savannah, he picked up his friend and drove to another friend's house and didn't even say goodbye.  I was, again, a little stunned.

It is a strange place here in the season of self-doubt.  Horrible.  Painful.  Exhausting.  And yet.  Sweet in ways I cannot say.  Thrilling.  Stunning.  And a little awe inspiring.  And I am getting through one day at a time.

And now, for the black eye.  Last week, amid everything else, we also participated in our ward's variety show.  It's not a great recording, heavy on the piano, but proof anyway, that we know how to have a good time even in the worst of times.  Here is Black-Eyed Beethoven:  

My Kingdom for a Canoe

David and I went skinny dipping last night.

It seemed like the right thing to do, given the heat and the haze of the first full week of school. 

I have wept and complained and moaned and wailed.  I have had more than one vivid fantasy about pulling everyone out of public school and packing up the tent and moving to the rainforests of British Columbia.  Maybe we'd even buy a canoe.   You know, to get around.  In an effort to blame someone for the shock and pain of real life, I have given David the stink eye, the evil eye, and the pleading, don't-leave-me-now eye.

All to no avail.  There is no help for it.  We are back to school.  And somehow it seems like the greatest tragedy of my life. 

I keep asking David, "Why are we doing this?" 

And he just looks at me indulgently.  "Come on, Ap.  We want our children to be educated, right?" 

I'm honestly not sure. 

Ethan came home from the first day of school with a stiff upper lip.  By dinner, though, he had dissolved into hiccupy sobs.  The kind that break your heart.  Halfway through his chicken and artichokes he was in my lap, his head buried in my neck.  His two best friends have moved away and both the lunchroom and the playground had been very lonely affairs. The next day I wondered what kind of person sends her nine-year-old boy back to the same fate, armed only with bolstering hugs and whispered words of encouragement.  It seems preposterous.  On every level. 

The other children are transitioning with more grace and ease.  Especially Olivia.  She started high school and somehow managed to find a group of cute senior boys to eat lunch with.   Life has never been better.  At the same dinner table that Ethan sobbed his heart out, Olivia couldn't stop grinning. 

It's overwhelming. 

How am I supposed to nurture and care for all these children given all that emotion?  At any moment, there are wild swings between the happiness or misery of my four children.  And five days in, I'm exhausted.  And heartbroken.  And worried.  And worn thin.  And sick to death of office supply stores.  And so, so tired.  Did I mention I was tired?  I actually had the thought this week that I ought to have my thyroid checked and then I remembered we were just back in school.  And as hard as I'm working, it's still not enough.  I told David that we need none of me from 9:00 to 2:00 and we need four of me from 3:00 to 9:00.  There are some serious staffing issues around here in the late afternoon.

David says, "Come on, Ap.  It's only the first week."  He says this to be encouraging.  Like, give it some time and it will get better.  We'll get used to it somehow.

But I only hear, "It's only the first week," and desperately wonder how I can possibly manage another thirty-eight.  See?  That place in the rainforest sounds awesome. 

This afternoon I am going with Caleb so he can take his driving test for his license.   

Maybe I will tell him to just keep driving, and driving, and driving, until we find the open ocean and a sturdy canoe. 

The Five Little Peppers, Et Al

David will tell you that I was ruined at a very early age by books.

The romance and magic and charm and mystery of books are hard to replicate in real life. There are not a lot of adventure stories about carpooling and what to make for dinner again.

But being in Tofino is like being in all the books of your childhood...the mild sunshine, the igneous rocks to scrabble over, the tree-lined bike trails that lead directly to wide, sandy beaches, the eagles soaring overhead. At any moment you just know there will be a mystery to solve that will absorb you for the rest of the summer while you lick dripping ice cream cones and your skin turns brown under the magical sun.

I am immediately undone. David told me he never gets over the curve in the road that reveals the beautiful little harbor. I know the feeling.

It makes me feel like I'm twelve years old and all my dreams are coming true.

Even the house we stayed in came out of a storybook with its wide wooden plank floors and thick wood beams tracing the slope of the ceiling up to the rooftop. Our bedroom had a slanted ceiling and slanted windows that looked out on the foreign world of rainforest. (In every book of my childhood the heroine lived in the top room with a slanted roof. Sigh.) At night, when the housing was breathing quietly, I would watch the black silhouettes of the trees standing guard at the window until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer.

Every morning we rode our bikes to the beach to watch the fog burn off and wait for the tides to leave their treasures for our admiration and pleasure. Afternoons were for surfing lessons and boogie boarding while the eagles flew over our heads. We built campfires on the beach and roasted hotdogs and s'mores and warmed our ice cold hands from the ocean. We hiked to hot springs, saw pods of grey whales, biked the deep green rainforest paths and beach trails until our legs burned, pinked our cheeks on some of the best beaches the earth has to offer, licked and kissed the salty Pacific from our chapped lips, and watched the Canada Day fireworks from the pier at the very western end of the Trans-Canadian highway.

And everywhere we went we wore our jackets and kept the time only by the tides.

And I'm telling you, it was just like being inside a book.

Those gorgeous Canadian Rockies are getting closer and closer. We are on the ferry again, headed towards Vancouver, with our bike tires full of sand and our bags full of shells and rocks. David's pockets are full of leftover loonies and toonies, and my mind is full of memory. It is the final few pages and I am nearly heartbroken with the end in sight.

I always read the final chapter of my favorite books twice as slow.

To make them last.

Yes, I am ruined for sure.

(gorgeous and glorious pictures will come later when I find an actual computer)

Fire and Fog

[In full disclosure, this post was written over a couple of days, with intermittent and international wi-fi coverage...and by now it barely makes sense to publish it at all. And yet, here I am doing it anyway.]

Thursday morning

I was going to share a photo on Instagram this morning, but found I had more to say than the little caption box is designed to hold.  Instagram is not really my preferred format anyway, as evidenced by my pitiful collection of photos. Given the choice, I will choose the 1000 words over the substitute. Every time.

We just passed the 45th parallel, exactly halfway between the equator and the North Pole, and I am carsick.  Out of practice, I suppose. 

The green hills and bouncy clouds of Oregon look exactly as we left them nearly four years ago.  Keeping vigil until our return.  The grasses are slowly turning into pines the closer we get to the Pacific.   No wonder Lewis and Clark kept going. Every mile is more beautiful than the last.  Of course these hills will be shaved bare again before we see the tides.  I love the dressing and undressing of rolling hills.  These road trip stripteases never get old.

Friday

Early last evening we made it to the northern end of Washington, Oregon's dark, foreboding cousin. The greens are deeper, more menacing, and capable of swallowing you whole if you step too far off the road.  It was a shock to step out of the car into the damp and the chill and David and I were forced to climb up and untie the car-top carrier to find jeans and socks and close-toed shoes.  (Though on the morning news they were talking about the heat wave and I couldn't stop laughing.)

We woke this morning to somebody blowing the fog horn over and over, long and low, and the gulls calling.  It already feels like we're in a foreign country even though we haven't yet crossed the watery border a mile or so into the Pacific.  We are headed north.  As far north as we can get.  When your backyard is as hot as the surface of the sun, the only thing to do is head north.  And as Caleb reminded me in southern Idaho, the earth turns slower the closer we get to the pole.  Just what I had in mind.  More time together, more savoring, elongate each gorgeous, precious moment, roll around in it.   I am determined to make the sun stand still.

I feel like I ought to say something about my long absence from blogging, rather than dumping you directly into our vacation.  My life seems pretty magical when the posts go from holiday to holiday, eh?  (Look, I'm already speaking Canadian!)  But now there is too much--too much to say, too much to remember--and the last few months have been like a wildfire, burning out large swaths of my memory and leaving only a few stubby highlights among the smoldering, smoking ruins.

There was school and work and church and lessons and school musicals and finals and an endless lineup of orchestra concerts. Though to say it in one sentence like that does nothing to convey the heat and terror of the firefight.  I also happened to throw an Indian-themed wedding for my youngest sister.  I didn't sleep during the entire month of May.  Mostly from searing and unrelenting fear.  My own mind can be a fearsome thing at three in the morning.  You will be surprised to learn that this made me mildly difficult to live with.  Despite my worries (and David's collateral suffering) it turned out lovely.  People who happened by slowed down and got out of their cars to crane their necks at all that love and beauty. 

And then finally, blessedly, the fire was out.  Summer was here and puzzles and games and movie marathons became the most pressing issues of every day.  And slowly, I have learned to sleep again. Ten minutes more every day.  Soon I will be downright slothful. 

Best of all, here we are in line to board the ferry to British Columbia.  We are headed out to sea, straight into the fog.  North, like I said.   Inside my head they are playing a rousing rendition of "O, Canada" and outside my head the earth is slowing down as it arcs along its orbit through space.

One slow, lazy, glorious turn at a time.

There's Nothing Wrong With Your Eyes

I have been decluttering. The drawers, the closets, the cupboards.

And finally, the blog.

Last and least. But finally, done.

When I went to clean it up, it was in a woeful state. Apparently, I had long-since stopped actually seeing it.

Over Christmas break, I drove Caleb down to the DMV to get his driving learner's permit. Before he took the written exam the woman at the counter said he needed to take the eye test. She had him press his forehead against the machine and then said, "Read the second line."

Caleb was quiet.

"Read the second line."

More silence. He looked up at me. Confused.

"Just read the line," I said, helpfully.

He put his head back in the machine and pulled it out again. "It's blurry," he mouthed at me.

I said, "Just read it." I am nothing if not helpful.

He started tentatively reading.

The woman looked at me. "Are you his mother?"

I nodded.

"Um, he can't see."

"Yes he can."

"No, ma'am. He's reading numbers and there aren't any numbers on the line."

He looked at me and shook his head. He couldn't see anything. Too bad. I had such high hopes for that "Mother Of The Year Award" in 2013.

And I asked myself, all the way home, all the way to the optomistrist, how I missed something like that. Blindness, I mean. What else was I missing?   It's staggering to consider.  When we got to the car, Caleb admitted that the board was blurry at school, but that he was "managing."

I protested, "But you don't have to 'manage.' Just tell us and we'll help you."

In the days and weeks since he got his glasses, Caleb has commented that his vision has "deteriorated." David asked him what he meant. He said that now when he takes his glasses off he can hardly see, everything is blurry. Um, exactly. That's how it has always been and he just didn't know that the world could be different than that.

Was blind, but now I see.