Aging with confidence

When Daddy Used to Clean My Glasses

Looking back at my father (with gratitude) through these old eyes

Photo by David Travis on Unsplash

“Four eyes!”

It wasn’t the words. It was the connotation behind them that hurt. You're different, you’re defective. You look silly.

Kids can be cruel.

Yet, my father instilled a completely different message in a young me, whose lazy eye would cross when I got tired.

I still remember my eye doctor’s name and where his office was located. I’m sure we didn’t have the choices in 1964 that we do now, and I don’t know if my father chose to gas up his VW Bug and drive an hour away for eye appointments because there were few doctors in the area, or because of some kind of family connection.

I was only 6 at the time of my diagnosis.

I was given games to play that would exercise my eyes. I remember my mother working with me, using something resembling a View-Master, and having to wear an eye patch, just never in public.

What is most memorable, however, is the way my father would clean my glasses every day and carefully place them on the dresser for me to put on in the morning.

I felt special. He did this for me.

Every night.

Like clockwork.

He didn’t do this for my sisters — okay, so they didn’t need glasses, but remember, I was 6.

Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses. — Dorothy Parker

Coming of age in the early ‘70s, I often felt the odds of being popular were not in my favor because I wore glasses. It wasn’t just me, either. The thickness of one's glasses seemed to be directly correlated with the negative connotation of wearing them. “Coke Bottle glasses” was quietly used to refer to those who needed the most vision correction. I truly believed that pretty girls didn’t habitually push their slipping frames up the bridge of their noses.

My father died, and I was left to navigate this landscape without his protective guidance. Not that I could have articulated any of this as a sophomore in high school, but in hindsight, I see how my journey shifted.

When I switched to contacts, I learned something valuable: Not wearing glasses didn’t miraculously put an end to pre-teen teasing. I had gotten wrapped up in looking different and forgot the important message my father taught me.

And he wasn’t there to remind me.

I wasn’t defective. In fact, I mattered so much that my father took his time, and I’m sure a good chunk of his money, to ensure that I could see clearly.

I was responsible. He taught me to care for a valuable item that he had invested in for my betterment.

Early on, he taught me how to lay my glasses down properly to avoid scratching the lens. To this day, when I take off my glasses, I still do as he instructed and remember him with fondness in my heart. He showed me how to love someone through simple, everyday actions.

I understand now that he didn’t just invest in glasses; he invested in me.

So many people see themselves as others say they are, but my father, intentionally or not, taught me something deeper.

Every time I woke up to a smudge-free pair of glasses, I saw an act of quiet, unconditional love. To him, I wasn’t four eyes; I was his beautiful baby girl.

And he was my problem fixer. My lazy eye needed correction, and he would do what it took to fix it.

I was seen.

I was a priority even if money was tight.

I was loved, and I carried that love with me for over six decades.

If this old girl’s story reaches the eyes of just one *girl dad* out there, I hope you know how important you are in your daughter’s life. The sacrifices you are making now will mold her into whom she becomes. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, she is watching and learning how to see herself, to treat others, and to love.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there, and especially to mine, in heaven.