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.

Homecoming

Like all robust failures, the Great Bachelor Experiment of '08 is about to come to its atrophied, pathetic end. The girls return to Michigan on Tuesday, thus concluding 10 days of dynamic loser-dom the likes of which are impossible to achieve without a home weather station, membership to the Mickey Rooney Fan Club and a soldering iron.

The highlights: Riding the bicycle with Lulu; watching Beverly Hillbillies re-runs; poorly executing home-improvement projects; botching Hamburger Helper twice and discovering "Hurl," a game show that combines competitive eating, amusement park rides and puking.

I'm excited to have them back. Thanks to my folks for taking such good care of Mo and Hope and showing them Maine, but 10 days is too long to be away from the ones you love so much.

Here's a video from one of my Heart of Dorkness moments.

... and livin' is easy

The first sign: Our laundry room has become the killing fields for small red bugs that come to smell my socks and die. Mo provides daily war dispatches, a la Christiane Amanpour: "I found five more dead ones today! They're getting closer to the food rack and the Clif Bars!"

The second sign: The calender. It's oddly full of stuff like parties, baseball games, family visits and vacations and conspicuously devoid of doctors appointments.

Yep. It's summer. We're proud and a bit wistful to report that Hope has passed her first year of special education. Cue the '70s stoner movie soundtrack; call the AM radio station 15 times and demand to hear "School's Out" again; toss all the toilet paper out the window: No more classes until September, baby!

For the past few months, Hope had some type of therapy every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Tuesday was group therapy for hearing impaired infants. Wednesday was at-home occupational or physical therapy. Thursday it was more group, this time for babies with special needs.

All were provided by the Intermediate School District. We're grateful for all of them. We were lucky to have some wonderful therapists who gave us great advice, encouragement and reinforcement. All seemed to really care for Hope, so we couldn't ask for much more.

We've debated continuning with private therapy over the summer. At some point, it's a conversation most parents of special-needs kids have. The ISD therapy typically lasts no more than an hour.

Our conclusion: Hey man, it's summer. Don't bogart the buzz. Crack another cold one and flip that Pink Floyd record.

Actually, we did some research, asked some questions and were advised by therapists to keep up with the exercises ourselves and enjoy the break. In taskmaster Mo's case, that means working Hopesy daily like a Red Army drill sergeant, until our little girl is spent ...

Fathers Day

Sleep in. Kiss the girls. Slurp coffee. Play with Hope. Take Lulu for a bike ride. Don't die. Read enough of the New York Times to feel smug for the day. Eat blueberry pancakes. Play with Hopesy. Get presents. Like 'em. Read card. Stand in awe that Hope has become a poetry prodigy.

Read Hope one of my presents, my favorite book as a child, "How Tom Beat Captain Najork and His Hired Sportsmen." Go back to bed.

Feed Hope strange brown mush with spoon. Consider it a triumph that 20 percent goes in her mouth. Relax. Lay on couch. Put on funny hat. Take it off. Kiss the girls. Eat leftover steak, cheese and pickles.

Go to zoo. Push Hope. Miss the chimpanzees. Think that anteaters sure look funny. Sit on grass. Play with Hope. That's the best part. Go home. Eat coffee ice cream. Play Frisbee with dog.
Call my Dad. Get more presents. Eat more pancakes for dinner.

Count blessings on near-perfect Fathers Day.

A big, short stroll

The sun shone for the first time in eons. The same streets that were so humdrum for months suddenly seemed charming. The mercury kissed 61. What better day to debut the Chicco Cortina Travel System?

That's right. It's not a stroller. It's a "travel system" with four cup holders for the parental units and infants, all-wheel suspension and something called a 5-point harness. The cruise control and heated seats were optional.

We waited for this day since Hope's birth. Pushing your kid down the street in a "travel system" is one of those mundane activities that seem so profound when you have to wait -- and work -- for months to get there.

First, Hopesy was too small. Then, winter descended and our doctor-ordered hibernation during cold and flu season began.

This was huge. One small stroll for Pippi. One giant leap for normalcy.

I kicked the tires and checked the manual for 20 minutes. Mo fussed with blankets before finding exactly the right one for the 15-minute journey. We made it to the end of the driveway before acknowledging the obvious.

"Why are we so nervous?" I asked.

"We just need to live our lives," Mo said.

That's been her mantra for weeks. It's one thing to vow to give your daughter a normal life when it's an abstraction because you can't go anywhere. It's another to actually do so when you can.

Our worries were unspoken: What if we were 10 minutes from home and Hope melted down? What if we hit a bump? What if Lulu went bananas? What if some hillbilly busybody sees our 5-month-old, 6 1/2 pound girl, gets the wrong idea and phones Child Protective Services?


We walked one block, gingerly traversing each sidewalk crack. We walked another block. Then another.

Hope was so concerned she fell asleep.

Like a lot with Pip -- or life, I suppose -- the first time is always the most nerve-wracking, and big fears that can paralyze rarely materialize.

We took the long way home.

Spring

We did it. We survived winter, somehow managing to avoid catching a cold when everyone in the world had one.

It was quite a feat. Normally, Mo and I swap germs like Typhoid Mary. This year, we were vigilant to avoid passing on anything to Hope, especially since doctors warned she could be hospitalized if she caught a cold. We kept her mostly inside for months and learned a valuable life lesson. Apparently, Mom was on to something with all that talk of hand washing, vitamins, clean living and vegetables. Who knew?

So spring has sprung. Our triumph over the calendar is complete. And, of course, Hope has her first cold.

It began with a few stray coughs. It's evolved into a seven-straight-sneeze symphony that's foul and phlegmatic. She's not sleeping well. The fussbudget is on Fuss Factor Five.

Hope's been out a lot more, so it makes sense that she'd catch a stray something. A few weeks ago, the sniffles and snorts would have sounded serious alarms. We still worry, but realize there's not much to do but ride it out.

There could be some lesson in here about planning your life, excessive caution or letting your guard down. But Mo delights in poking fun of these entries for always ending in lessons.

So perhaps, just this once, a cold is just a cold.

A rival for Hope's smiles

Lately, we've deluded ourselves into thinking we're getting the hang of this parenting thing. Our daughter digs us. She looks straight into our eyes, laughs at our jokes and smiles like she just won a pie-eating contest whenever we're nearby. We are so cool.

We learned how we really rank today when we met a rival for her affections, something so fascinating and endlessly amusing that we can't hope to compete.

Hope has discovered the ceiling fan. We may never win her back.

We will hold her, tickle her belly, coo and goo. She'll like it OK. Then, it happens: Off, over our shoulder, she will spot it a few feet away. Her eyes widen. Her mouth slackens. She succumbs to its allure.

Game over.

Hope is transfixed. And who can blame her? Sometimes, it goes fast. Sometimes, slow. Always, round and round. That's tall company.

Hope rewards the fan with full-body, giggling delight smiles the likes of which are far more euphoric than the "Hee, hee! OK, I see you already" grins she bestows on us.

Like a lot we've learned so far in parenting, it's a bit humbling. Hope's happiness is a primary concern. Besides health, it's what we want most, so we'll take it however it comes. But a fan? A clock maybe. A blinking alarm clock for sure. But a stinking fan?

Full disclosure moment: We don't even rank #2 behind the fan. That distinction goes to lights. They are bright and full of, well, light. Hope will smile in our arms, full of mirth and glee. We will congratulate ourselves on developing such a rapport with our sweet princess, then realize she's looked past us for 10 minutes and is enjoying a special moment with a lightbulb.

Again, it's tough to argue. Lights help you see. But for those keeping score at home, Hope's true loves are in order: Fans; lights; that special lady who birthed her from her loins, feeds her eight times a day, comforts her amid the sorrows, lavishes her with hugs and cleans our her eye boogers; and that dork with the video camera.

We had a moment of pause when we worried unnatural fascination with fans was a sign of a developmental delay. Then, we discovered page upon page online of perplexed parents of newborns who also can't compete with rotating blades.

So we'll take it. If Hope is happy, we're happy. And hey, Lulu still thinks we're pretty cool. Then again, she eats her own vomit.

A few notes about collaboration

We have a few arguments in this house about blog entries. I write 'em. Mo edits 'em. Initially, Mo felt jealous, claiming I spent more time with the blog than her. She dropped that when I started spending more time with her.

Lately, the friction stems from our philosophical differences as journalists. I want to tell rip-roaring yarns that entertain, enlighten, provoke and even tickle the heart. She keeps insisting they be factually accurate.

Whatever, lady.

Honestly, we walk a tight line. Our first priority is protecting Hope. There are some scary possibilities with CdLS that don't need to be announced and prejudice anyone's view of her. But we also have an opportunity to spread the word about a syndrome most don't know exist.

So there are many chats about how much to say, when and how. I usually err toward letting it rip, brutal honesty and endless chin scratching that paints me in the best possible light. Mo prefers a judicious, "We went to the doctor today and here is what happened" approach. At times, the chasm proved so great that I threatened to (a) Start a secret, alternative blog using pseudonyms and a made-up condition where I could finally be free to vent inner demons and philosophize (b) Kick her off the blog about her daughter or (c) Withhold kisses until she is a nicer editor who lets me write what I want.

Her response: "Whatever, loser."

That's my lady!

We've bandied about compromises. Mo doesn't want to alternate entries. I suggested we approach the blog like an annotated study Bible: I'd set down divine prose and she'd make persnickety notes in adjoining, red-font paragraphs to offer her claim to the "truth."

Until then, we're stuck as collaborators, in more ways than one and must make it work. In that spirit, here's the latest, in prose to make Mo proud.

Monday, Mo took Hope to the eye doctor for a routine examination. Hope is doing well. She can see well. She does not have cataracts. Her eyes were dilated. She tracks motion well. The doctor is a nice old man. He gave tips on how to massage the balls of Hope's eyes to ease what appears to be a blockage in her tear ducts causing excess eye boogers. We will seem him again in a few months, but so far, so good!

Last week, Hope began occupational therapy. She will have occupational or physical therapy every Wednesday at our house and, when she is big enough, will go to group therapy Thursdays with other tots. It is part of Michigan's Early On intervention effort for special-needs children.

The therapists work on such things as "tummy time," neck control, feeding and eventually crawling and arm control. One of the exercises involves a helium balloon. You put it near her to encourage eye tracking and playing with her arms. She had a jolly good time Monday night with a Valentine's Day balloon. We held her, she giggled and followed as it gently bobbed and swayed. She reached for it repeatedly, but didn't quite bat it with her hands. Oh well. A good time was had by all. We also worked on an exercise with a rubber pilates ball. She lays on it with her tummy and we gently roll her. That encourages neck control. She did a good job.

Our sleep study last week was postponed until Feb. 19 from Friday. Other than therapy on Wednesday, it is a quiet week.

Over and out.

A different Christmas

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Sometimes, amid the hubbub and anxiety, we lose sight of what's important. It's Christmas, and we did it.

Seven long weeks ago, that wonderful and nerve-wracking Halloween, we set a modest goal to have Hope home by Christmas. We beat the pants off that deadline. Since then, it's been great, hard, scary and busy.

For a while there, schedules seemed to conspire against Christmas. We couldn't agree on the right photo for a card. Since Hope can't leave the house except for doctor's appointments and I don't get home until 7 or 8, neither Mo nor I had a spare minute to think about presents. A tree seemed like an afterthought. Months ago, in an uncustomary fit of charity, I took pity on a co-worker scheduled to work multiple holidays and agreed to work Christmas.

But we may just pull this thing off yet. We went into holiday overload this weekend, scrambling for a last-minute tree, mailing out cards by the dozen, finagling the perfect roast and snatching up toys for Hope. It's not as easy as it seems: What do you buy a 4 1/2 pound girl who already has two pairs of every premie outfit at Babies 'R Us?

Mo and I are forgoing presents this year. Being hopeless romantics, we decided our new garage door was our gift to each other. Plus, Mo already gave me a beautiful gift on Halloween. And I give Mo the gift of my awesomeness every day.

Usually on Christmas, we wake up, eat breakfast, open presents, then head over to the Feighans for more of the same. Things are all a bit different this year. Mo's father had knee-replacement surgery last week (Big Beef is doing fine), her sister, Molly, flies back to New York that morning, I have to work at 10 and we're all under quarantine.

So, as often is the case, things aren't exactly as we planned. But we'll adapt. It's what we do. And what's most important is sleeping peacefully, cooing away and oblivious to all this fuss. Hope's home. She's where she belongs. So yes, it already is a great Christmas.

Snow day

In southeast Michigan, the media call days like today "chaos." In Maine, where I grew up, they call it another Sunday.

We awoke today to about 6-7 inches of snow. In many parts of Michigan, that's no big deal. Here, we get one of these doozies about once or twice a year and everyone goes kookoo. I turned on the TV news this morning and saw a reporter run after a woman at a gas station, stick a microphone in her face and demand, "Where is your hat?"

It's a fair question, I guess, because it's hard not to get a bit giddy on days like today. After all these years, big snows still feel like an event -- a communal pause from the humdrum and invitation to do something different. The roads are impassable, schools are closed, so why not build snow tunnels that are one good gust away from suffocating you, be on the wrong end of whitewashes in junior high or kill the day drinking skunk brew in college?

So I skipped out of bed today, excited by the possibilities. I looked out the window, contemplated the still of the morning and thought, "Oh yeah, we're not doing anything. We're staying inside again."

It's not even officially winter, and cabin fever is setting in. As detailed earlier, Hope's tracheomalacia makes it imperative she avoid catching colds, so we're hermits until spring. We may need some hobbies -- and fast. We skipped another holiday get-together this weekend and had to shoo Mo's sister, Molly, away because she has a sore throat. That left the following as the highlights of the weekend: (1) Goo gooing with Hope (2) Eating a meatball sub and (3) Scoring two consecutive Bingos at Scrabble ("Genitals" and "Paginate.")

It might be easier if Hope had an outstanding weekend, but she didn't. She's had a tickle in her throat the past few days. Her breathing has sounded terrible. The Prevacid has yet to kick in and the reflux through her nose has come in torrents. Falling asleep seems difficult. Often, she'll doze for about 10 minutes, then awake screaming.

Hopefully, she'll kick whatever it is soon. She's had a better evening than afternoon; she's getting her extra-strength, cold aversion Synagis shot tomorrow and her name, after all, is Hope.

But it's still cause for anxiety. And tough lessons. I learned this one the other day: No matter the hour, the duration of your daughter's tears, how many times you've wondered whether you should call the pediatrician or how logical the sentiment can seem, never -- never, ever, never -- say something dumb like, "Y'know, sometimes, I don't like this very much." It seemed like an honest assessment. I was worried sick and had heard other guys say far worse (a friend described the first 2 months with a newborn as "100 times the work of a puppy and half the rewards.")

Mo didn't want to hear it. And why should she? Whatever anxieties I have, she bears fifty fold. She's taking a six-month leave of absence from work, so this is her life 24-7. I'm a few weeks into hunkering down and already jawjacking. She's an old pro, having been ordered on bed rest at the beginning of October. That's three months of nothing. Such solitude may suit Thoreau, but it's driving Mo bonkers. She has a few house guests, 1-2 a week, but we try regulate them to keep germs at bay. It's a week before Christmas and the only shopping we've done is online.

"It's all so isolating," Mo said. "I get depressed sometimes. But Hope is worth it. I'm sooo happy she's home, so what's the alternative?"

We both know it. When Hope was born, we set Christmas as a goal for taking her to the hospital. We beat it by a month. We're not keen on returning, so we need to hunker down, figure this out and maybe take up macrame or decoupage.

Bushed

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We bought a garage door the other day. Once adorned with retro eagles that Mo insisted I remove when we moved in, it broke every three months. My parents taught me how to deal with these problems: Ignore them until you can't possibly anymore, then apply the cheapest fix and forget it until it breaks again.

After years of adhering to the tradition of turning small problems into expensive ones, we followed the door's lead and broke down. Returning home from work, I was eager to see it.

I made it about three steps into the garage when Mo yelled at me through the side door.

"What are you doing?" she barked. "Get in here! I need a break."

That's life now. Five minutes looking at a door is wasted time. I'm typing with two fingers and trying to coax Hope back asleep. Mo is napping. She's making up for last night Afflicted with what my father-in-law delicately calls "the creeping cruds," I decided I couldn't help with Hope's feeds and needed a bubble-bath and nine hours' sleep to slay whatever ailed me.

Call it what you like. I consider it a valiant sacrifice to shield my daughter from germs that had nothing to do with eating six slices of pizza in 10 minutes.

Like all new parents, we knew this would be exhausting but weren't prepared for how much. From afar, it shouldn't seem so hard: You burp, feed, fuss, coo; change a few diapers, apply some creams now and again and -- voila! -- wile away the next three hours completing jigsaw puzzles or online enrichment courses.

Of course, it's all-consuming and unrelenting. I'm bushed. Mo's bushed. We're learning that raising a child with unique challenges is probably like raising a healthy one but magnified. It starts with the doctors: In addition to a pediatrician, Hope sees a cardiologist, audiologist, geneticist and physical therapist. And the spit-ups and rashes that would normally be scary are petrifying. Mo is now navigating the maze of health care and HMOs. We'd like to add a gastrointestinal specialist to the list to evaluate Hope and address her spit-ups. It's supposed to be standard for CdLS kids. Our network has pediatric GI docs. The next opening is May.

But big deal. It's work. What great in life isn't? And Hope's doing good, home now for three weeks and notching small landmarks. We don't panic anymore when we don't hear her for 3 minutes. She's becoming more emotive every day, sticking out her tongue, fixing her stares and flashing dimples like she was at the county fair. We're not counting her breaths anymore. But we are counting our blessings.

See you in spring

As if the weather isn't reason enough never to leave the house, our pediatrician gave us another yesterday: We need to do everything possible to ensure Hope doesn't catch a cold.

If she does, it could be bad.


Hope's floppy windpipe, tracheomalacia, causes her to breathe heavily. Its severity comes and goes. Sometimes, she sounds like a gentle pigeon cooing. Other times, it's like a heavy smoker or asthmatic. When she's in a good sleep, it's practically non-existent. The video above is on the loud end of typical.

Tracheomalacia complicates feeding, but mostly, it just sounds bad. It doesn't hurt her and it's supposed to improve in about six months and disappear in 1-2 years when the cartilage hardens. But if Hope gets a cold, her airway may not be able to withstand heavier breathing that comes with an infection and hospitalization could be likely.

So avoiding colds is ideal. But how? Practically everyone we know has some sort of sniffle, snort or sneeze nowadays. Many tots get 8-10 colds a year.

We have a double-barrelled strategy whose crux is becoming hermits. Luckily, I've been training for this moment for years. It could be harder for Maureen. She has friends.

On doctor's orders, we're avoiding all holiday get-togethers, the mall, restaurants, present exchanges and fondu parties. Hope only leaves the house for doctors' appointments until April. We'll minimize visitors, wash our hands to their bones and wile away the hours by loving our daughter to pieces, playing games, watching bad television and eating lousy Midwestern comfort food like this monstrosity I whipped up with a few cans of soup and fake biscuits.




Hope didn't eat a bite (smart kid) but still put on 5 ounces in two weeks. She's now up to 4 lbs., 4 oz. and grew a half-inch to 17 inches.

The other half of the strategy is a Synagis shot. It's a super-duper drug to avoid respiratory infections that is recommended for premature babies or those with breathing difficults. It's hardcore: About $1,000 per monthly shot through the three months of winter. Insurance is often reluctant to pay, but Hope should qualify. If not, we'll eat the cost, begrudgingly but fully aware there's no alternative.

One month

I suspected Mo was going a bit stir-crazy with all this baby stuff. I discovered how much today when she woke up in a foul mood from a disturbing dream.

"All this food was getting shoved down my throat," she complained. "My sister, Anne, kept rubbing my back. I kept thinking, 'Stop it! This is very uncomfortable. I don't like this at all!' But I couldn't talk. I had food in my mouth.

"Do you think that's how Hope must feel?"

I'm no dream analyst, but that may mean something.

Hope is four weeks old today. It's been 12 days since she came home. Mo seems to be digging the new mom thing. She's very protective, eager to ease Hope's worries and delights watching her little cheeks become chubbier daily. She's positively thriled, but exhausted.

We have two major observations after one month, neither of which is surprising: It's amazing how much we love this little girl, but weren't quite prepared for the level of work. Feeding is major production. Every three hours, we try to cajole her into eating just a bit more. That lasts 30 minutes and is followed by another 30-60 minutes of holding so she doesn't spit anything up. Often, that means coaxing her to sleep, then realizing we need to wake her up in a half hour to repeat the process.

Mo does most of the heavy lifting, and it's all-consuming. A scarier sign that Mo may need some diversions -- crossword puzzles? stuffing ships into bottles? -- came yesterday.

Mo looked at me and uttered truly frightening words: "I may actually be missing work a little."

Now, the rest of our lives

So this is it. Home. Alone. Perpetually tired. A dog at your feet, a baby monitor never more than 3 feet away. No burp, wheeze, hiccup, fart or gasp left unexamined. All of them sparking new worries, what-ifs and moments of "I know we shouldn't, but let's just check the Internet this one time for symptoms of whooping cough."

I dropped off my sister and brother, Beth and Steve, at the airport today about 5 a.m. For the first extended time since Hope's birth, we have no house guests. There's no one to run errands, give us another excuse to order take-out or offer advice, reassurances and fresh insights into "Dancing with the Stars."

This is our life now: Me, Mo, two annoying cats, an occasionally behaved dog and a baby who may not need our full attention all 1,440 minutes a day but sure as heck gets it.

It's what we always wanted. And it's great, but scary. Even if Hope didn't have a genetic condition, we'd be fretting now. But she does.

We're coming to believe that caring for a special-needs child is a lot like raising a healthy one. But everything is magnified and you have a lot more doctors' appointments. We have the same fears -- is she getting enough to eat? is that sneeze the start of the Taiwan Flu? -- but less margin for error. Hope is doing great, but she may always have health worries. Kids with CdLS, her presumed condition, have a host of potential problems from feeding and hearing to motor skills and development.

Hope already has seen more doctors than I have in my life and her December is shaping up like a doozy: Cardiologists to follow up on the blood-flow issues in her heart (so far, so good, but intervention probable in her life); audiologists to follow up on her hearing (preliminary tests show she could have a mild hearing deficiency that she may be able to outgrow); physical therapy to tone those arms as well as regular appointments with our pediatrician and geneticist.

It's overwhelming stuff. We have our moments, but we try not to let it consume us. We feel terrible that Hope may have to endure more than other kids, but we are well-practiced in the art of self-help mantra: She is who she is supposed to be. Don't borrow worries. One day at a time. Don't worry about five years any more than parents with healthy children worry about them growing up to be jerks.

They may be cliches. But they're also quite true, and Hope makes all of this so much easier. We fall deeper for the sassy redhead who becomes more expressive (and attitudinal) every day.

And she's doing well. Hope isn't exactly a candidate for Jenny Craig yet, but is finally back to her birth weight. Her funny breathing -- tracheomalacia, the saggy windpipe that eventually goes away -- seems a bit worse in the past two or three days. The doctors say it's nothing to worry about, but we do anyway. She's also feeding well, although I gave the false impression last week that Hope is a breast-feeding champ. She has fed from her mother's breast. Once tremendously. Since then? Eh, not so much. But you should see that kid with a bottle of mother's milk! Chug-a-lug!

We weren't sure about the future of the blog after she got home. The crisis has passed. But the need remains for a place to post updates, keep those who are interested in the loop and minimize redundant conversations.

Plus, it gives us a chance to brag up our girl and share fantastic photos like the ones Steve shot this week.

Ain't she a cutie-patootie?

Exhausted bliss

A few hours ago, I held my daughter. The doorbell rang. I stood up, cradled her in my arms, walked 10 feet and answered it.

Mundane? Sure. Amazing? Quite.

It happens every day, but it's profound beyond words. Our baby is home.

For the first time in 16 days, Hope Beatrice isn't connected to four sticky wires. There are no screens to monitor her heartbeat, respirations and oxygen levels. We have no tests tomorrow. There are no nurses telling us when we can bathe or weigh our child. We can pick her up and move beyond the five feet of wire that anchored Hope to her crib.

The moment Mo has prayed for since Memorial Day came about 3:15 p.m. There were no grand pronouncements, parades or quizzes. The doctors wished us well, gave us Hope's discharge papers and sent us on our worried ride home.

It's bliss, absolutely and truly, and moving in ways that I'm sure I'll be better able to capture tomorrow. Now, words fail me. We're humbled, awed, terrified, overjoyed, thrilled, and quite exhausted.

Mo is in the nursery, trying to soothe her baby. I'm on the couch envying my dog, who is asleep under the coffee table, no doubt dreaming about eating toilet paper. My brother and sister, Steve and Beth, are in from the East Coast, droopy-eyed settled comfortably in their happy pants.

It's been a long, nerve-wracking, rewarding and blessed day, and I'm sure a long night will follow. We're on our own now. Our baby is home. We can barely put one foot in front of another.

I'm in no shape for profundities, but I wanted to post because an update because I know a lot of you are curious and knocked on wood when a dork on the Internet asked you to. We're truly thankful for this amazing network of love, support, good will and prayers that extends from Singapore (Hi Pam!) to Maine.

Hopefully, this is the end of a crisis and start of a journey. Things won't be easy, but now, they're exactly as they should be. We couldn't be happier. Or sleepier.

Milk maven

News flash: Hope has taken to the nipple.

Mo eagerly reported Wednesday that our miniature milk maniac has figured out that good stuff comes from Mom's breasts. A week ago, Mo had all but given up on the idea. The mechanics seemed off. Hope didn't seem keen on the prospect. Her mouth was too small and appetite too big.

A skeptic, Mo heard all the talk of the miraculous bonding experience between mother and child. She shrugged most of it off, content instead to harness oddly industrial apparatuses to herself and transfer the milk to bottles. But she's become a convert: "I was like 'Wow! I'm giving nutrition to my child. That's pretty neat."

Like a lot of other newborns, Hope's a chugger. She's a bit like her Dad was in college: Drink, drink, drink, forget to breathe, then pass out. But Hope's flow seemed natural with her mother. She paced herself. She took breaths. She had to work a bit harder, but seemed more sated.

So that's good stuff. We're pleased and proud that Hope is able to try new things, struggle a bit and eventually figure them out.

That's a good omen because soon the real work begins. Hope is tentatively set to come home Friday. Mo has visualized and prayed for the moment for months. We were up until midnight vaccuuming, dusting, screwing down changing tables and worrying like mad.

I feel a bit like Robert Redford in "The Candidate." We've won the campaign. The confetti is raining down. We're hooting. We're hollering. We pause and ask, "What do we do now?"

Mojo, juju and fate

It's a funny word and we're still getting used to it: "Progress."

There wasn't much during 89 days with Will. But a glorious, straight line out of the hospital is developing for Hope. She's keeping herself warm and graduated to a big-girl crib. She's doing so well with her increased feedings that her IV is gone and there's talk the supplemental tube may be removed from her nose. And the fourth echocardiogram of her heart Friday spotted no new causes for concern, so the next one isn't planned for two weeks. In the whirlwind that's been the last 10 days, that might as well be next year.

Friday was Mo's 32nd birthday. It was blissfully low-key -- if you can discount the half-hour of dread we spent during the echocardiogram wondering if everything would go wrong. It didn't. Instead, Mo held Hope for about six hours, read her stories, doted on every wheeze and hiccup and micromanaged her husband's bottle feeding techniques. That sounds about right: Happy birthday, indeed.

It was a nice to get through the day without any drama. Three years ago, the Red Sox had just won the World Series, my mother was visiting and we had a child in the hospital who seemed to be improving. Will's progress was halted on Mo's 29th birthday when he stopped breathing for the first of three days. There were subsequent fits and starts, but he never really recovered after that.

So Friday was a big emotional hurdle to clear. I avoided posting yesterday in fear of jinxing ourselves. We realize all this talk of mojo, juju and fate makes us seem like we're two steps shy of sacrificing a chicken, but it works for us. And hey, Hope was born on Halloween.

We also know these comparisons to her brother aren't entirely fair to Hope. She's her own person and she's healthier than her brother. They're simply yardsticks to measure her progress. As much as we loved Will, we realized early on he wasn't long for this world.

That's not the case for Hope. We realize there still could be setbacks, but lately, we've allowed our fears to become more pedestrian: "We're going to have a newborn home. What are we going to do? Our lives will never be the same."

They won't, and thank God for that.