hope

Sometimes, hope is profound. When we hope for a good outcome for our daughter, even while knowing the risks, for example.

Othertimes, hope is very simple indeed. After a long day yesterday of a flight-y nurse who was really freaking me out with her lack of attention to detail (this is the disadvantage of the 12-hour nursing shifts...it makes for a long, long day when the nurse isn't so great), today I'm hoping for a competent, communicative, able-to-remember-stuff nurse. I would love to avoid spending my day today telling the nurse when she last gave such-and-such medication and then having to correct her math when she tells me four hours have gone by (um, sorry, only 3) and Moriah is due for another dose (um, no she's not). Spoke with the charge nurse about that one yesterday evening in my best I-am-a-rational-and-calm-mother voice, so I have reason to hope today I will not ever have to deal with Nurse Crazy again.

Other hopes: that the sniffling nose I thought was a reaction to the dry air around here will not turn into a full-blown cold. That Moriah will continue to eat every four hours, a pattern she began overnight, much to my delight. That I won't need an afternoon nap again today; we're taking Orilus and Jackson to the movies to celebrate Jackson's birthday, and I'd love to stay awake for the entire film. That my grande cup of London Fog (oh, sister, how can I thank you for introducing me to this delight?) will never, ever run dry. That I'll have time to blow dry my hair this morning.

As I wrote this, a beautiful nurse appeared like an angel in the doorway, with a schedule for Moriah's meds today. A light seemed to shine from behind her. Hope, my friends, is not the thing with feathers...it is a blonde-headed nurse with a pad of paper, a pen, and a brain for remembering stuff.

May you, too, find lots of small (and even silly) things to hope for today!