Finally. Tomorrow is the day. Tomorrow afternoon Ambrose will be released from his hospital prison and returned to the real world. And boy, is this child ever ready.

For the past several days, whenever Ambrose has a break from his IV, we head out and get some exercise. By now we have toured the hospital many times over, both indoors and out. And during these excursions recently, I have had the distinct feeling that I am rather like a haggard old woman holding desperately onto the the taught leash of a disobedient and unruly puppy.

This afternoon, as we strolled along the sidewalk, my son made a sudden announcement that he had spotted a “shortcut” and made a dash for the woods. I was not prepared to tromp through the muddy leaves myself, and so I watched from a distance as his white T shirt bobbed in and out from behind trees and he ultimately wound up a few hundred yards ahead of me, skipping and laughing, on the sidewalk. By the time I reached him, he was positively gleeful.

“You didn’t dare follow me!” he chortled, bending over at the humor of it all. “And look at my sneakers!”

Yup. Brand new Nike sneakers. Caked with mud.

Then this evening, as we took yet another stroll through the hospital, we approached one of Ambrose’s favorite spots: a very long and often empty hallway.

“No running if there is anyone around,” I cautioned him, and much to his dismay, there were some people in the hall. As soon as they had passed, however, he was off like a shot. He leapt and jumped and shouted with joy.

“Shush, Ambrose… and slow down!” I called after him as his small figure, with arms waving wildly above his head, became still smaller in my sight.

He didn’t shush. And he didn’t slow down. But that’s okay. I didn’t really want him to.

Really I would. I’d like to write up a beautiful, great-big, wonderfully reflective post about today.

But. I have a date. A dinner date with my very own husband. I intend to be showered and I do not intend to be late.

So, poor little you. You’ll have to wait just a bit longer for that beautiful, great-big, wonderfully reflective post.

Until then, though, you can feed on this little morsel of good news: Ambrose comes home Friday. God is good.

Not to worry. Life is not dull here at the hospital.

Ever since he received the game packet and instructions with this morning’s breakfast tray, Ambrose was looking forward to playing “Hospital TV Bingo” this afternoon. So at 2:00 sharp, we tuned in to channel 15.

The man on the television screen welcomed us to Hospital TV Bingo and then began churning a wire cage filled with bright yellow bingo balls. Having read and re-read the directions in the packet at least a dozen times, Ambrose was ready. He had memorized the number he needed to dial in order to report a Bingo win and was confident he would be using it.

“I’ll need the phone,” he told me with his green marker poised and ready over the first Bingo card.

I brought him the phone. His jaw was clenched and his eager eyes were glued to the television screen. Oh please let this kid get a Bingo, I found myself praying.

After the first two cards were completed, several other patients had called in their winning numbers and had their names announced on the TV. There was Joan from 203. And there was Charlie from 436. But not Ambrose.

With each Bingo number called out, tension mounted in the room and my son’s disappointment was almost palpable. Oh please let this kid get a Bingo, I found myself praying again.

The TV Bingo man kept calling and Ambrose kept hoping. At long last, he had 3 in a row. Then 4 in a row. Now all he needed was I-18. I held my breath.

“Come on… I-18, I-18, I-18…” Ambrose chanted at the television. I chanted too. And then, incredibly, it happened.

“I-18,” the TV man announced.

Ambrose let out a small gasp and lunged for the phone. Without hesitation, he dialed the number he had memorized. Within seconds, he was verifying his numbers and chatting with the man on TV. Sweet victory! And with that decisive win, the boy’s luck changed for good.

In the next 20 minutes he went on to win Hospital TV Bingo not once more, not twice more, but three times more. Each time he called in his win and each time the TV man announced my son’s good fortune for all channel 15 Bingo viewers to hear.

At the end of an hour, the television screen went blank and the gaming was over. Ambrose carefully filed away his winning cards, leaned back on his pillow, and basked in his moment of glory.

“I knew I could win,” he grinned broadly in my direction.

An hour later, when the Bingo man from TV appeared in Ambrose’s doorway, it felt like we were meeting a celebrity. He told us that although technically the rule is one prize per winner, since Ambrose was a quadruple winner he could choose two prizes from the winners’ basket. It was a painstakingly drawn out decision, but eventually Ambrose settled on a stuffed toy kitten and a new metal slinky.

Of course, after the Bingo man left, my son became an intolerable braggart, sharing his status as a 4-time Hospital TV Bingo winner with anyone who would listen.

“Congratulations!” the nurses told him and “Thank you,” he replied, attempting to look modest. But really he looked quite content and more pleased with himself than I’ve seen him in quite a while.

Exactly right, I thought. Thank you.

Thanks still again to all who have emailed and sent along good wishes and prayers for Ambrose. It truly is heart warming to hear from so many wonderful people who are thinking of us and praying for us despite the fact that we have never even met in real life. I have said it before and I’ll say it again: The people who read what I write here in this little spot of cyberspace are some of the most wonderfully generous people on the planet. God bless you all!

Ambrose is keeping busy and happy and continuing to improve. We don’t know for sure yet, but we are hopeful that he will be able to return home within the next week.

Since I’ll be returning to hospital duty tomorrow, I thought this evening I would share with you the following thoughts about the time I have spent here at home:

Top Ten Reasons Why Home Feels Purdy Durned Good

1. The sweet hugs and kisses of my other six children.

2. My precious bed. (We don’t even own a purple apholstered chair.)

3. My darling razor. (Try not to imagine the hairy, drain-clogging details of our reunion. Really… that’s gross… stop it!)

4. A practical outlet for my nervous energy. The bathroom has never been so sparkling. And anyone can drop by unannounced and inspect the inside of my refrigerator. Really, you can.

5. My delightful bed.

6. A hot shower that doesn’t run out of hot.

7. Friends that have stopped by and the quantities of chocolate they have left behind to keep me company.

8. My fantabulous bed.

9. Raphael’s sweet clinginess, familiar slurpy face, and just-right weight in the crook of my arm.

10. Did I mention the bed?

for the next 36 hours or so and Dan is taking over purple apholstered chair duty. While I am frantically doing laundry and attending to Mass, CCD, and other Sunday obligations, you can read this article of mine over at Catholic Exchange about sterilization reversals. And if the topic of sterilization is one that touches you personally, please do check out the wealth of resources available at One More Soul.

Apparently, one of the many fringe benefits of maleness is automatic promotion in the medical field. At least in the minds of little boys.

Yesterday I was out of Ambrose’s room for a little while and when I returned, he mentioned that the doctor had stopped by to see him. I hadn’t been expecting the doctor until later, so I was upset to have missed him.

“What did he do?” I asked Ambrose. “What did he say?”

“Well,” my son informed me. “He listened to my heart and my breathing and then he said he’d be back later with my dinner tray.”

Hmmmm… Doctors delivering dinner trays? After a little investigation, I discovered that the “doctor” who had been in to visit Ambrose was in fact a nursing student from a nearby college. Not even an RN yet, just studying to be one. And this young person’s only qualification for automatic promotion to MD? He was male.

Now I have to wonder if the female doctor Ambrose sees every couple of months is forever relegated to “nurse” status in his mind. Or maybe he thinks she’s the maid. I’m afraid to ask.

Things are going well for Ambrose and we are continuing to see improvement. I would like to pass along many more thanks to all the wonderful folks who have emailed and sent along their prayers and support. I wish every mom and dad here at the hospital could feel so loved and encouraged!

Some days and some times in life are more demanding than others. In my opinion, however, one of the fringe benefits of these times is the complete and total exhaustion that accompanies them. That may sound strange, but really it’s not a foreign concept to most mothers I know. We like to feel that we have done all we can do and that we have made the most of every minute God gives us each day. Some days it’s easier to feel that way than others. When you’re this tired, you’re “good tired” and by the time your head hits the pillow (or purple apholstered chair) you have no regrets. You have no choice but to leave the rest in God’s hands. And that’s a good thing.

Before I head back to Ambrose and see who won the Duke game, I want to share two things that have made me smile today.

First, when Dan called from home yesterday morning and I could hear the sound of that wonderfully familiar chaos in the background, I asked how he was handling homelife. He answered that “this stay at home mom stuff is easy.” “Cake” I believe he called it. And I think he was serious. Talk about hilarious. And talk about fodder for many, many future discussions about the divisions of household tasks…

And the other thing that has me smiling is an email I just received from a reader who offers the soundest advice I believe I have ever received. It’s quite simple really, and yet beautiful in it’s simplicity:

Inhale the nearest chocolate.

See what I mean? How can one deny the sisterly wisdom of those words? And how can one not comply?

I want to thank everyone who has emailed and who has offered prayers and encouragement. For those of you who don’t know, Ambrose is the hospital. He is doing fairly well. He is not in too much pain; he is animated, relaxed, and cheerful. But his recent bout with the flu left him with an infection that requires a treatment of IV antibiotics that will take several days more to complete.

And so here he sits, and here I sit too. Because that’s what mothers do. Sometimes, I have come to realize, all a mother can do is be there. We stand beside the bed and clutch the railing as our children are subjected to various procedures. We hold their hands and smooth their hair. We kiss them when the doctor says to before they are whisked away and we are ushered to the waiting area. We shoo too many “helpers” from the room and pull the blinds when we know they need their rest. Because that’s what mothers do.

Sometimes, though, the pain of fear and worry are so great a mother knows she can’t afford to feel them right now. And so she doesn’t. Instead, she focuses on what she can do. Like choosing between strawberry and peach yogurt for her son’s lunch, cheering him on in his Nintendo games, and making play-doh elephants to amuse him.

There are many families here whose stories are sadder than ours, and I know that. Their children- babies even- are in pain. They have been in the hospital more than they have been out. And they might never leave. I know this, and I am grateful for our many blessings.

But sometimes still I find myself awake at 4:00 in the morning. I sit in the purple apholstered chair covered by a white blanket and I watch my son sleep. I listen to the steady hum of IV and monitoring equipment. I observe the cords and tubing that have been inserted in my boy’s small pale body. In the dim glow of the IV monitor, in the stillness of early morning, I watch his chest rise and fall with every breath that he takes.

And just for that moment, I allow myself to feel some of that fear I have been avoiding. I let myself wonder about the future and I worry about what lies ahead. And then, even as I feel the comforting strength and security of God’s hand closing around us, I also feel the crushing weight of its enormity. And I cry. Because mothers do that too.