And Sprout grows every day. Here she is, in a t-shirt from Prospective Aunt Johanna. 18 months old and moving at the speed of light. She likes for her belly to stick out of whatever she wears, and at this point it's too cute to worry about her reputation.
She's been diagnosed with a congenital heart defect, which we'll hopefully be having repaired in mid-April...mostly I'm trying not to think about it, in the hopes that then it won't bother me. It's a same-day surgery (she won't have to spend a night in the hospital) and fairly simple, but it is still the scariest thing we've encountered yet. I always thought those Hallmark cards and movies were overly enthusiastic about the heart-wrenchingness of parenthood, but the fact that just typing the words "congenital heart defect" makes me want to projectile vomit leads me to believe they were considerably more accurate than I could have ever imagined. It reminds me, too, of how much more comforting life could be if I only believed in some semblance of higher power.
Damn atheism, failing me again.