Mother of the Year

I know we're only two and a half months into 2009, but ladies, put away the cookie sheets, park the minivan and forget about Mother of the Year.
This year, that coveted, much sought after award is mine ... all mine. And, honestly, I wasn't even trying.
It's been nothing like past years, when in moments of medical brilliance, I've ignored all signs that ultimately led to raging ear or urinary track infections, outbreaks of shingles and pink eye, and an allergic reaction to sulfa drugs.
Nope, for 2008-09, I've been responsible and vigilant, working all angles of preventative health care, from flu shots to dentist visits, healthy eating and exercising regularly. The worst we've suffered in this worst-of-all winters has been a few bouts of stuffed noses and mild coughing. No illness a few overdoses of Nyquil couldn't cure.
Consequently, it didn't seem particularly alarming when Child #3 started a subtle, yet constant whine about not being able to see.
Occasionally, she'd cite such complaints as her glasses didn't work, someone else's glasses worked better and sitting in the front row didn't help. And, I do recall some mention of headaches.
Now, in hindsight, these issues may have demanded more serious attention and prompt action than I offered. But, in my defense, she does tend toward the dramatic end of the spectrum.
In the interest of full disclosure, however, I should admit that it took about a year for me to accept that, maybe, her older brother truly was seeing double, which only took nine months of vision therapy to fix.
Still, it seemed reasonable at the time to do what I often do at the first whine — tell 'em to suck it up and hang tough. After all, if the skin tone is good, the eyes are clear and the appetite strong, what can be so drastically wrong?
Well, apparently, sometimes they really can't see.
After two months of fielding her complaints, I finally made an appointment with the eye doctor.
Somehow — oops — two and a half years had passed since her last visit. In that time, one eye worsened by five lenses and the other by three. And, no, she hadn't kept up with those eye exercises.
To ease any permanent scarring from my maternal incompetence, I ignored all sound financial judgment and let her pick the frames she wanted. Kate Spade? Two hundred dollars? Not a problem.
But, my feel-good moment was fleeting. In its place, all I could feel was a suffocating sense of guilt over having ignored my poor, blind child.
As we drove away from the office, she started screaming with excitement: "Omigosh! Look! I can read that sign! Fourth Street! And that one! No parking! Omigosh! Omigosh! This is so weird!"
Once at home, she found a new thrill everywhere she looked.
"Mom!" she squealed, standing on the stairs. "I can see the time on the clock from here!"
Objects had defined lines. The picture on the television was clear. It was as if she could see for the first time.
Oh my gosh, indeed.
If I was any kind of stellar example of motherhood, a shining beacon in the sea of maternalism, I suppose I would take a vow right now to honor and listen to my children from this point forward.
But, I'm thinking, what fun would that be?