San Diego fun

They're back safe, sound and happy. Good times in San Diego with Mo's sissies.

Bachelor days

Globe-trotting Hope is at it again, flying to San Diego early this morning with Mom and her Aunt Annie for five days with Aunt Molly -- or as I call her, Dirtbag. Lulu and I are holding down the fort, raking leaves, ripping apart the bathroom, eating frozen pizzas and generally having unsatisfying, one-sided conversations.

It's been about 13 hours and I already miss my ladies. It's terribly lame, but the cycle repeats itself: Count the days until sweet bachelor freedom; feel sad for at the airport, sing a song of emancipation and return home, look around, realize it's awfully quiet and begin to re-shingle the roof. If this keeps up, I may have the foundation of the house up on jacks tomorrow.

I probably sound like a dullard, but Hope has been even more of a joy lately. If something isn't bothering her -- and she lets us know when it is -- she's one happy kid. It's a cliche, but that's all we can ask. And her joy is infectious. It's hard to be in a bad mood around Hope.

Mo always dogs me for writing long and skimping on facts, so here are some:

To our surprise, Hope has done well with her new pink spectacles. She's much more engaged and only whips them off when something is bothering her or feeling neglected.

Hope took to a fancy, schmancy new gait trainer the Intermediate School District let us borrow. It had a long handle so we could help her steer without breaking our backs, like her current loaner. She made repeated circuits and giggled all the way, like her heifer won top prize at the county fair. That's the good news. The bad news is we had it for four days on loan to see if she liked it before ordering it through supplemental insurance. That could take three months. So it's back to the low-tech red walker and more Ben Gay for our backs.

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.

Rock city

We're the first to admit it: Cleveland may not top anyone's vacation list. Sure, the onetime Mistake on the Lake has some fabby public places, a nifty waterfront and a gee-whiz Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But as vacation destinations go, it's probably somewhere between York, Penn., and, well, Detroit.

But Cleveland does have one big advantage: It's 3 1/2 hours from Detroit, which makes it an ideal weekend retreat for a little girl who can endure just about 3 1/2 hours in a car seat before going absolutely bonkers.

We spent Saturday and Sunday in the Forest City, as a weekend getaway mystery trip birthday excursion from Big Mo to Yours Truly. We stayed in a nice hotel, walked around, saw the sites, went out to dinner, took in the very cool Rock Hall, ate junk food and, all and all, had a lovely time. 

In fact, we would dare say it was liberating. With winter and Hope's slow growth, we're still tepidly emerging from our nourishing yolk. But as she does every time, Hopesy made us proud: The kid is a terrific travel companion. She barely fussed, endured her old man's stories at the Rock Hall about The Clash and, when it all got too damn boring, took a nap.

We returned Sunday night full of vim and newfound courage to spread our wings further and more frequently. We can do this! We were lame to be so careful! The only limitation is our own mind!

Monday, the vomiting began. Then came lethargy, dehydration and an overall peaked appearance. Three calls to the doctor and some waffling over the emergency room later, we're still in the throes. Cross-our-fingers, sign-of-the-cross, knock-on-wood, we think Hopesy is slowly emerging. She's at least begun to keep some food down tonight.

We're kicking ourselves for what we did or didn't do, but maintaining our mantra: She could have gotten sick anywhere. Don't blame Cleveland. It's got enough problems.

Seriously, we're worried like anyone and hopeful the experience doesn't curtail our travels. Hope digs the out-and-about. It's good for her, and it's good for us.

Chalfonte Kid

Hope became a Chalfonte Kid last weekend. She's in good company.

Founded by a childhood friend of Mo's father, Chalfonte House in Elk Rapids is more than a big, Victorian home in one of Michigan's most-picturesque lake communities. It's been a retreat for kids and families in need of TLC for more than 20 years. And it's got a big place in Mo's heart.

She began spending weekends at the house as a teen amid a rough patch. Her parents thought she could use some guidance from their pal, Father Jim Meyer (who trained for the priesthood with Mo's father and is forever known as Jimeyer.) She connected with an amazing network of friends, some of whom have endured loss, hardship or illness, some haven't, but all of whom have friendly ears and knowing souls. It's the sort of place you aren't compelled to explain or share anything, but usually do anyway and feel better for it.

Mo has been part of a Women's Weekend for more than a decade that meets once a year at Chalfonte to drink wine, talk, laugh and cry. She's also a camp counselor there for a weeklong retreat for teenage girls. Adult Chalfonte weekends are full of wine, laughing, great food, rituals, sharing and euchre and backgammon matches that last well in the morning and so vicious they've been known to inspire grown men to call 70-year-old priests "jackasses." (OK. Maybe it was only one grown man and one priest. Guilty as charged.)

Initially formed for those with cystic-fibrosis and other life-threatening illnesses, Chalfonte has seen its share of triumph and loss. Some of those who've spent weekends dipping toes in Lake Michigan have died too young. Others went to support others and left touched by the support they received.

None depart before signing a leaf on a mural of a tree in what's called the trophy room. I added my name in 2002, a year before Mo and I married. Hope signed her name, with a little bit of help from Mom, last weekend. It was a special moment in a weekend that's always special.

Photo fatigue

Alright already. We get it. We are bad bloggers. After 10 months of draining our hard drive with gigabyte after gigabyte of snapshots and videos, we're photo fatigued.

I'm not sure when it struck, but it couldn't have come at a worse time: High summer, the peak of the social season. Last weekend, we should have snapping away at the social event o' the year -- Hope's star turn as the flower girl at her Aunt Annie's wedding in a northern Michigan winery. Somehow, we blew it again.

So take our word for it: Hope knocked 'em dead again, strolling down the aisle with her Dad, a nifty wreath of miniature roses in her hair.


These photos are from my Mom, who flew in for the big event for babysitting duties.



Much more soon. We promise.

Photo shoot

Years ago, deep in my bachelor wilderness, I had grand daydreams of fatherhood and what I'd be like as a pop. Long story short, you never fantasize about your shortcomings.

I would rule as a Dad. My awesomeness and generosity would know few boundaries. Parents would lobby me for advice. Like a grand pooh bah dispensing favors, I would impart morsels without giving away the secrets that would come so naturally.

Nine months in, I acknowledge that I'm a pretty good dad who still has a lot to learn. It seemed so easy for my parents. I thought it would be a snap to follow their lead and call it my own. But one thing I've learned: It isn't always intuitive to a 38-year-old who has spent much of his life refining the art of selfish pleasure. Time moves fast and you realize -- holy jeepers -- there's much you planned to do but haven't.

Like having professional portraits shot of your pride and joy. We have hard drives full of Hope's every bray, hiccup and smile, but none captured by anyone who knows what they are doing. It seems like a natural and rite of passage: Put your baby in her Sunday finest, trot her out to the studio, wave a lollipop in front of her face and pray for the best.

Somehow, it eluded us.

Fortunately, my brother, Steve, has willed himself into becoming a professional-caliber photographer. Always artistic and the son of an ace shutterbug, Steve somehow taught himself skills in about a year that it's taken others decades to master. This time last year, I was vaguely aware that he bought something called a ''camera." Today, I am in awe.



Steve converted my childhood bedroom into a makeshift studio, complete with multiple flashes, muted backgrounds and umbrella-type doodads whose names elude me. Our 12-year-old nephew, Matt, was his eager assistant, distracting Hopesy with toys, making silly faces and cooing "Work it, baby" as though he had spent a lifetime on the runways of Milan. Hope did the rest.



The session was cut short by a nasty bout of gas, but we think the results are remarkable. I'm lucky to come from such a talented family.

I left this morning from 10 great days in Maine, taking Hope to the coast, showing her sea urchins, dried seaweed and the salty mud of the Atlantic. We ate too much; celebrated my father's 70th birthday with food of the world, beer and an elaborate barbershop quartet performance with my niece, Kate, and nephew; yukked it up with my generous sister, Beth, and her hubby, Rob; ate my aunt Denise's guilty-pleasure Midwestern dip; watched too many bad movies; and bathed in the glow of the people I love the most.

Mo and Hope get to continue the fun for another 10 days. I get to go back to work. I miss them all terribly.



PS: Much more to report on Hope's first big vacation. Hours of video to distill and photos to sort. But once again, she exceeded our expectations and proved herself a trouper and party girl of the highest order.