Out of time

Mo's mother is so continually behind in her reading that she carries an ever-expanding sack of old newspapers. Not only does she never catch up, but with each passing day, she falls further behind, prompting some weird time-space continuum moments and great fodder for teasing.

"Shhhhhh. Don't tell Clem that 'Falcon Crest' went off the air." "How are you preparing for  Y2k?" "I dunno why, but something tells me this whippersnapper Ronald Reagan has a shot at the White House."

Well, hardy har har. Suddenly, I can relate, as time becomes an ever-shrinking commodity and it takes me until midnight to complete a month-old collage on Easter. At this rate, I'll be putting the finishing touches on my "Sister and Mom Come to Town" video by Columbus  Day.

Back on the radio

The frequency was fuzzy. We kept fiddling and diddling with the dial, jiggling crumbled aluminum foil over the broken antenna. But we're back on the radio.

Few things in life are more boring that blogs about the lack of blogs, so we'll spare the gory details. The long answer involves a not-as-swift-as-it-seems-on-TV conversion from Windows to a Mac, Lulu eating our homework and a strange cat who popped on our doorstep and promised three magical wishes but instead gave us powerful lesson on love.

OK. We're making the last one up. The short answer is, as they say in the news business, no news is good news. As most with blogs know, the longer you go without posting, the easier it is for the urge to post to atrophy.

And the truth is, things are going pretty well. Hopesy kicked her cold, she's been a terrific mood, laughing at everything and nothing and infecting us with her giddy enthusiasm for the same. My dear ol' Mom, lovely sister and suddenly-stronger-than-me-and-it's-scary tween nephew visited as well,  giving us another excuse to avoid the blog like a bacon-chomping tourist back from Mexico.

We'll get better in May. We promise. Unless the sun starts shining or something.

The Impostor

The Impostor has left. We don't know who she was. We never did get a ransom note. But we're happy she stopped wearing Hope's clothes, slurping her Pediasure and soiling her diapers.

It was a strange, creepy trick, not unlike whoozit -- Beelzebub? -- and Regan MacNeil in "The Exorcist." We figure the Impostor must've pulled the switcheroo somewhere in Cleveland, giving Hope the heave-ho and pulling the doppelganger routine on us.

We know it couldn't have been our happy-go-lucky, inquisitive, curiously-obsessed-with-buttons-and-zippers-fussbudget. The Impostor cried a lot, didn't seem to care about much besides sleeping and generally seemed aloof and miserable.

After two weeks of dealing with the no-goodnik, we were happy to show her the door and welcome back the kid who laughs uproariously when we put a pair of way-too-big glasses on her face. We dig her. She's mostly all the way back now, although the Impostor has been seen lurking in the driveway, tossing dice and muttering under her breath.

It was a rough go for a while, dealing with the Impostor. But Hope had it far worse, dealing as she was with whatever it was for two weeks. The fog lifted slowly, but it's been sweet and nice to be reacquainted with our happy girl. We missed her a lot.

Jiggity jig

We're back. Hope was released from the hospital mid-day Tuesday. After a week doing her best imitation of wet laundry, Hope has perked up. She's eating again, plays with her toys and isn't sleeping away the day. 

We're happy campers. But mostly tired. For a place that is dull as dirt, the hospital sure can be exhausting.

Yuck face

We're now into Day Six of the "Whatever It It, It's Sure Got Her Sick" mini-crisis, hopeful for some serious, double-whammy, reverse-mojo "announce it on the blog and the opposite is sure to happen" luck.

After waffling, we took Hopesy to the Emergency Room about 3 a.m. Wednesday. She stayed for about 10 hours, felt a little better, and has since settled into her new, troublesome routine: Serious lethargy, a lot of sleeping, little if no appetite and the all around blahs.

Poor Mo has called the doctor about six times, we went back to the hospital Friday afternoon for blood work and are trying our darndest to avoid dehydration. But it seems like Hope is stuck in a bit of a vicious cycle: The more she feels bad, the less she eats, the less she eats ...

We're hoping it'll run its course soon. Some nasty stomach thing has been making the rounds that usually lasts about 48 hours. With her, we double that and cross our fingers. The docs say she should emerge by the end of the weekend. Still, we fret and worry. It's tough seeing our little spitfire mope around like a sack o' moldy potatoes.

Update: Hope went back to the ER on Saturday afternoon, not long after my lame attempt at harnessing the reverse mojo of the blog failed miserably. She was admitted late Saturday night and probably will be here at least another day or so.