Forty Nine (49): The Age of Vision

I fumble through the rack of "cheaters" at the local drugstore.

The training wheels of eyeglasses.

Which am I, a 1.0?  1.5?  I can't be a 2.0.

I was sure the blurriness was a brain malfunction.  I'd never worn glasses, never had trouble from near or far.  Even during law school, all throughout the growing up years I was the one who could read the label, the dosage, but no longer.  Now I squint, hold things up to the light, view a menu at a thousand paces.

I then blamed it on bad restaurant lighting.  But soon I was expanding the font on my iPhone, scratching my nose with newsprint, borrowing glasses at lunch time.

I'm still fine from long distance.  I can see a street sign before others, Natalie's time in the 200 Freestyle displayed on a video screen across the pool, the movie details on the outdoor marquee.

But I can't see what's right in front of me.

The second child is in college-preparation mode, her departure coming into focus.  The first child is knee-deep in his new environment: the freedom, the fun, the friends, the future.  His daily hurdles are no longer ours. We can't see them.

But I can see the future.

I see it in the lives of friends.

While our first went off to college, some in our orbit became empty-nesters.  While our parents move to Florida, some of the adults from our childhood fade away.

I see a future where the extended family dynamic changes, holidays when everyone coming to us is not an option, or atleast not the default. School schedules don't jive with life, the amoeba is breaking apart.

But I can't see up close.

I get home early one evening, dinner is done, the girls scamper away, it's 7:15 and there is nothing left to do.  There are hours that I cannot fill.

I see the future in the pace of our lives.

A house goes from bustling to quiet, a calendar empties from full to scattered.  For the past 18 years we squirrel away the moments when we have time to ourselves, to read a book, write a note, watch a show undisturbed.

Now there is more time than things to fill it up.  A weekend morning when no one needs anything from me.

Sundays have morphed.  At first they were exhausting struggles of who would get up with the kids. It moved on to Hebrew School drop off and soccer practices, pick ups from sleepovers, trips for bagels to feed a house full of teenagers who crashed on our basement couches.

Now we go to Yoga class alone and return before the house has stirred. The children wake in time for lunch.  Soon there will be no kids, nothing to rush back for.  Why wait in the Sunday morning line for one bagel?  I can go on Monday instead.

I can read the road signs off in the distance, but I don't recognize the icons on the Waze app in my hand.

Early in Game of Thrones Ned Stark warns that "Winter is Coming."  In the show seasons last for years.  A change of season is upon us.

How do you fill the quiet hours of a February weekend without kids to serve?  I see the future, but I can't quite make out this evening's calendar.

There are no glasses for that.