Powered by GoodWidgets.com
I put my parents on a plane back to Maine today. It's been almost 20 years since I left for college and I've perfected the routine: No awkward moments, swallowing tears, blubbering sweet sorrows or speechifying; just give 'em a hug; honk the horn at the curb and hit the gas. I save my tears for later.
They were here for five days and it was great. Both have a great rapport and gentle manner with little Hopesy. I took the time off work and it was nice to soak in the goo-goo ga ga time, celebrate Penguin Awareness Day and pass off a few marathon feedings to good ol' Mom. (Free marriage advice: If you and your spouse want to reconnect for a first night alone in three months, "There Will Be Blood" is not a great date movie. I know. It's shocking.)
But sure as dawn, reality returns. So today it was back to work, and Mo was back for Round Two with the inscrutable Dr. Spitenup, the pediatric gastroenterologist who wears grape-flavored gloves, takes no measurements and dispenses diagnoses through a rapid-fire series of questions that requires us to quantify the problem through percentages. Mo told him Hope still has 71 percent happy days, but falls asleep midway through about 40 percent of her feedings and seems about 17 percent less interested in milk the past two weeks. Dr. Spitenup told Mo that he now realizes Hope has red hair and told her to come back in six weeks.
Good ol' Dr. Spitenup. I wish I could find a dentist like him ('My teeth feel 98 percent clean. See you later!')
Tomorrow, Mo finalizes the last of an exhaustive process of meetings and paperwork to enroll Hope in Early On, a state program for developmentally delayed children that should connect her soon with an occupational therapist to work on feeding and other issues.