It's moments like these that make people so deliriously happy and dumbfounded by pride that the only recourse is to slap a "MY KID RULES THE UNIVERSE" bumper sticker on the car.
It came last night. Hope's grandfather was in the other room, watching the Tigers. Hope was on her stomach. Her fanny was in the air, shaking in a manner that is adorable now but may cause scandal in about 10 years. It inched higher and higher, like a tulip blooming in super-speed on the Discovery Channel.
Oomph, went her arms.
Ooops, went her back, swaying like Andy Capp before he gets bonked with a rolling pin.
C'mon Hope! You can do it!
Our faces were on the floor, cheering her on. Encouraged by her coaches, Hope has become a hardcore squirmer of late. She's kicking, flailing her arms, grabbing stuff and rolling from side to side. We both agreed she's on the verge of a breakthrough and kicked ourselves for waiting so long to figure out that, hey, this kid like being on her back.
She hoisted. She grunted. She pushed.
Argh. No luck.
C'mon Hope! Do it for daddy!
Hope regrouped. Her face stared at her play mat with a look of steely determination unseen since pipsqueak gymnast Kerri Strug ignored her aching ankle. I froze in a moment familiar, I'm sure, to parents everywhere: Do I run now and grab the camera to document history at the risk of missing it?
Hope answered the question. She pushed again and -- wowzers -- flipped from her stomach to back. She wore a look of bewilderment and excitement, as though she wasn't quite sure what she did.
We did. Our baby just rolled over.
We beamed. Pride gushed over us. In all fairness, I knew it was coming. Mo reported the big event occurred that morning during physical therapy. This was an encore or proof.
We were ecstatic. We've worked so long, so hard. What more could we ask for?
Do it again! Do it again!
P.S. Thanks to everyone for their thoughts, prayers and good karma about the surgery Friday. We go in at 6:15 a.m. We are nervous.