I am the luckiest mom on earth. My kids are cute, smart, funny, and highly entertaining. They do stuff and I think, I couldn’t have made that up if I tried for weeks on end. This is one such story, and I saved it until now so as to not terrify the teacher who would be having Megan in her class this year. (Mrs. E. has met my daughter now, so she will appreciate this little tale.)

Last May I got a phone call at 9:30 in the morning. Caller ID said it was Windsor Unified School District. I answered with my heart in my throat, doing that instantaneous panic of mentally driving a kid to the emergency room while wondering which kid it was this time.

It was Megan’s first grade teacher, Mrs. O.
“Hello, I’m calling because I’m wondering if there is any reason that you can think of that would make Megan feel she’s lost her vision?”

Excuse me? Lost her what? Are we talking metaphorically or actual sight, here? I blinked a few times and allowed as to how the child had been able to see perfectly fine when I dropped her off a scant hour ago.

“Well, she’s saying she can’t see,” Mrs. O. went on, and I detected a suppressed laugh.

I offered to come relieve the teacher of my child, but she said she thought she’d do just fine, and to not worry about it. Mrs. O. was used to my creative little six year old at this point, and I think she was looking forward to watching the day unfold. She didn’t so much HAVE Megan in her class as she GOT to have Megan in her class, like a perk: you can always count on her livening up a random Thursday.
Later I went to the classroom to help for an hour. Mrs. O. was in the reading corner, with kids piled around her listening to a story.

“Megan, your mom is here!” several voices chimed.
My daughter turned, saw me, and her face did one of those slideshows of thoughts: Hey, it’s Mom. Oh, wait, it’s MOM. Oh, no, it’s MOM.

“Megan can’t see,” several kids informed me.

“You know what? I think she can see just fine,” I countered, watching my daughter’s eyes.

“Don’t say that!” one of the girls chided. “That’ll hurt her feelings.”
I stayed during the rest of the story, and then it was time to go to the library. A few classmates were helping Megan by leading her by the elbow across the classroom and then across the campus, since, you know, she couldn’t see, and all, but once in the library she managed to find two books perfectly easily.

(Side note: One was titled “Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire” and the other had two crocodiles on the cover, identical except that one wore glasses. I swear to you, I wish I could make that up, but there it is: fact is stranger than fiction, every time.)

While in the library I sat across from Megan at a little table and asked what she thought might be going on.

“Well, when I went to the eye doctor, she said my vision might change in the future,” Megan said.

(This was true. In December she had had an eye exam, to rule out vision problems in her scattered, distract-able ways. She can see just fine, much to her chagrin – she wanted to wear glasses.)

I leaned in close, and informed her, “In the future meant like, high school. Not May.”

Megan’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

Later that afternoon Megan caught a fly ball out of an overcast sky at T-Ball and then sang and danced in the Open House performance with the rest of the first graders. Her other teacher, Ms. C, expressed amazement at the recovery, having been told of the “vision problems” earlier that day.

“Yep,” I said, “she’s cured. The way to cure her is to take her chin in your hand and say firmly, ‘LOOK at me, LOOK at me.’ Poof! It’s a miracle! She can see!”
Hallelujah.