"Mrs. Boath, we detect a serious problem with your son." That's an opening statement that quickly caught my attention. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle in December, I received this very message from the school nurse on my cell phone. The nurse has had several occasions this year to call me with "everyday" type of ailments — bumps, headaches, accidents. Let's just say, I recognized her number on caller ID. As she proceeded to explain my son's predicament, I immediately realized this wasn't a run of the mill problem. Evidently, Matthew's teachers had picked up subtle clues that he was struggling with his vision. In a one-on-one assessment, his teacher was amazed that he could not see the letters on the page in front of him. Instantly, he was ushered to the nurse for a true eye examination. The nurse, too, was surprised to find that Matthew really was living in a fuzzy world. She rattled off the numeric scores of the test. All I heard was that it wasn't even remotely 20/20. Not even close. The very next day, with a referral in hand, I had my very interested 5 year old sitting in the optometrist's chair for his in-depth eye examination. The doctor concurred. Matthew could not see anything clearly. His diagnosis was severe far-sightedness. I was counseled to look deep within my family tree for other relatives afflicted with this ailment. My obvious question was why hadn't he ever said anything? My heart broke knowing that all this time, he had been struggling and I hadn't been able to help. The answer was painfully clear. He didn't know any better. To him, this was the way to see. I still feel horrible when I think that he's had to work extra hard to focus, and make sense of the world around him. The doctor strapped a set of rigged glasses on my face to demonstrate my son's current vision. It's a sight I'll never forget.
As the doctor fiddled with the lenses to access just the right one, my son kept babbling his typical nonsense. When the correct prescription clicked in there was a deafening silence, broken only by a loud "Wow."

For the first time in five years, my son could see clearly. He walked up to me with this eye-glass contraption on his face and exclaimed, "Hey, there's only one of you!"

A few weeks have passed since our trip to the eye doctor. Matthew has already grown accustomed to his new SpongeBob Glow-in-the-Dark glasses. In 2006, he'll see everything in a whole new way — clearly.

Kim Boath is a Connecticut Post retail advertising manager. She writes the fourth Monday of the month. She can be reached at kboath@ctpost.com.