Hope makes her move

Hope let go.

Saturday, unable to find her beloved Winnie the Pooh push cart or inferior-but-will-do-in-a-pinch lawnmower one, Hope stood against a wall, looked around, thought Why not? and walked.

It wasn't one of those Oh, I'll take a few brave steps and grab ahold of something sturdy walks, either. This was Lewis and Clark, Vasco de Gama and Neil Armstrong embarking on brave new world conquests.

Hope planted her flag in her bedroom, surveyed the riches, proceeded to the hallway and declared our bedroom part of her sovereign kingdom. It wasn't a one-and-done dilettantish affair either. Once Hope realized she could walk, she's become Speed Racer, moseying about the house in a royal quest quest to knock stuff over, inspect coasters, open and close cabinets and see what she can throw in the toilet next.

We're ecstatic, of course. It's been such a long time coming. She's been inching this way for some time since she began cruising on Memorial Day Weekend in 2009. Slowly but surely, she gained more confidence and strength and put the pieces together.

We thought she was ready for a breakthrough in spring and set the end of summer as a goal to get her walking. She suffered a setback. We weren't sure if it was the introduction of a baby brother or molars or outgrowing her orthodics, but her confidence sagged. So did her progress.

We were bummed. But Hope gets her determination from Mom and procrastination from Dad and pulled it out with two days to spare.

There were days, early on, when we weren't sure this day would come. Before Hope could sit, when she was a bit of a wiggly blob, her first physical therapist, Shirley, told Mo: "She's going to be a mover. I can see her running one day."

Mo cried. The affirmation came just when we needed it and carried us through some slow months. Hope's not quite running just yet. But she will.

... 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 ...

Happy days

This is what bliss feels like. Hope's grandma from Maine is in town; the girl gets a double dose of grandmas today; and we're fairly convinced that Wednesday was the happiest day of her life. Thursday was swell too. But Wednesday? Oh. What a day.

Pip is probably the happiest kid on the block when nothing is bugging her. Unfortunately, something often creeps up -- be it her colic, reflux, constipation or parents -- and dashes the good-time vibe.

Wednesday? Nothing. Everything was hunky-von-dory. Mile-high smiles all around. Hope aced her therapy. She went for long walk under 60 degree skies. She became acquainted with the Bumbo seat and didn't freak out.

It's amazing this is the same kid who spent all last weekend crying. We're not complaining.

Encouragement

The past week or so around these parts have been filled with "avast, aghast, pity poor us" posts. All the facts are true -- tough questions from strangers, a bad sleep study, strange doctors -- but in sum, they may give the impression that times are tough. They're not. Hope is doing great.

She's been in physical and occupational therapy for more than a month and has responded well. I have to be careful what I say and avoid giving either therapist clever nicknames because they're readers. But it's safe to report Hope is a promising pupil. We worried about how she'd handle 30 minutes of stimulation, but so far, she has exceeded our expectations.

They come to our house on alternate Wednesdays and work on things like neck control, balance, tummy time and building muscle. Sometimes, that's through bouncing her on exercise balls or laying her on her tummy. Other exercises involve toys with bright lights. Eventually, therapy will expand to off-site visits for a group therapy session on Thursdays.

Two observations from the physical therapist have delighted us.

I see Hope running one day.

and

Socially, Hope is where she's supposed to be or even a bit advanced.

I think Mo almost cried when she heard both. Too often, our expectations have had to shift downward. It's great to have high hopes.




P.S.: The uber-cool photos above are from my brother, Steve. That's my sister, Beth, and Hope being enthralled by a Daisuke Matsuzaka doll. Steve's a great shutterbug. Thanks, dude.

P.P.S: Happy birthdays to two of our favorite ladies: Mo's Leap Year sissy, Molly, and my dear ol' Momito. We love you guys oodles.