Eric usually wears contact lenses, but first thing in the morning and last thing at night, he wears his glasses. Eric has had the same pair of glasses since the 8th grade. Not just the same thin, wire tortoise-shell frames with dull gold accents but the same lenses too. And no, he's not blessed with the eyesight of an 8th grader. He has become more myopic, but he still wears these glasses so that even with them on he can barely see five feet in front of his face. His eyewear situation is not helped by the fact that he hasn't cleaned those glasses since the 8th grade.
At some point the left arm of his frames fell off and he lost the pin. In a rare MacGyver moment, he repaired them with a straight pin. He clipped the pointy tip off and curled it up so that it would stay in place, but needless to say, it is still pokey and threatening. When I lean over to kiss him in the morning, there's always the risk that, in some Twilight Zone version of The Gift of the Magi, I will suffer permanent ocular injury inflicted by my husband's 8th grade glasses.
The other morning, we were lying around in bed enjoying the fact that we didn't have anywhere to be and don't (yet) have a child/ baby demanding our weekend morning attention. Eric was, of course, wearing his 8th grade glasses and staring at me lovingly.
"Do you think the baby will have your mouth and nose?" he asked.
"I don't know. Why?" I was setting him up for a gracious compliment about the beauty and fullness of my lips and the aquiline slope of my nose. No such comment was forthcoming.
In fact, the conversation from there spiraled into unloving comments about the attributes we wish our baby would inherent from ourselves -- thereby pointing out the other person's shortcomings.
"I hope the baby has my eyelashes," Eric commented before noting how difficult life would be for the baby if it had my short, sparse eyelashes.
"I hope the baby has my personality," I retorted.
"I hope the baby has my SMARTS!" Eric followed his come-back with an "Ooooooo!" to increase its potency.
"I hope the baby has my non-prematurely grey hair."
This, of course, lead to a discussion about what I would think if Eric came home one day and he had dyed his hair entirely black using "Just For Men" to cover up the grey around his temples, which he knows that I find debonair.
There was a silence as we both sat there thinking about "Just For Men" and other artifacts of our 1980's upbringing.
And, finally, Eric:
"I hope the baby has my 8th grade glasses."