We like to think we're clever people. I almost solved a Suduko once. Mo kicks some serious patootey at Scrabble. We're both self-aware enough to know that few things can make you feel so dumb, so fast as child-rearing.
We've been in fits over Hope's mystery ailment. She has a bad cough. She's running a low-grade fever. Her diaper rash looks like the surface of Mars. She drools like Marmaduke eying the mailman.
Last week, we took Hope to the pediatrician. The diagnosis: Who knows? Maybe she has an ear infection. The treatment: 10 days of bubble-gum flavored antibiotics.
The drool, two-pack-a-day cough, diaper rash and boogies persisted.
Next came Internet research. Is it allergies? Do we need to find a good home for Lulu or -- horrors -- actually start cleaning the house?
We were onto the rock 'n' roll pneumonia and the croup before Mo put it all together.
Bad rashes. Coughing. Drooling. Irritability. Mo stuck her hand in Hope's mouth.
Son of a gun, we think our girl is teething.
One of the dangers, I think, of having a child with a fairly exotic genetic condition is that sometimes we skip over the simple causes for her discomfort.
But it's sometimes complicated stuff: We got the tests back from Hope's endoscopy a few weeks back to measure her reflux and determine why she spat up blood. Once again, the inscrutable Dr. Spitenup threw us for a loop. The results showed mild inflammation of the area near where the stomach and esophagus meet.
Translation: A bit abnormal but not the horror show we expected. So, once again, we've dodged our worst fears. And for that, we're happy.