Well, our health trials with Little Shmoo aren't over, though we hope this next one is easier and less dramatic than the last one. Wednesday she'll go in for a tonsillectomy, adenoidectomy, and another bronchoscopy to see why her colds still make her upper airway rattle so loudly. We are hoping the "ectomies" will resolve her snoring, apparent apnea, and put an end to the constant stream of sinus infections that have plagued her this winter.

She's a little person now, no question about it, and that makes it harder and easier at the same time. For her big surgery in October 2006, she was still truly a baby, and we couldn't explain any of this to her. When we sent her into surgery then, we sent a little ball of unexpressed emotion with very little ability to participate in the world around her. Goodbye, critically ill constantly unhappy crying baby. Have a nice surgery. Hope we see you again when it's over.

This time, we're sending one of our fellow adventurers in there. She tells us she loves us. She says it, on her own, along with a lot of other things, like "I want to watch Dora" and "Mommy, I'm still coughing, I need to go to the doctor" and "We have to go to school to pick up my sister" and "Please can I have more mango?" She is proud of her big girl bed. She can put beads on a piece of lanyard. She can sing the alphabet song, and she can hop like a bunny, and she can hold on to my neck all by herself while I swim a full length at the pool. She could help me save her life, if we ever needed to. On Wednesday, we'll get to explain the basics of her surgery to her, and wait for her -- our funny little daughter, deeply beloved -- on the other side.

Wish us luck.

Shmoo has been home from the hospital since Thursday, and she'll be staying home all week, recuperating and eating soft foods and being told, over and over, not to jump on the couch or she'll tear a hole in her throat. If you need her, she'll be watching Dora the Explorer.

The surgery itself was a success, I'll admit -- her tonsils and adenoids were deemed "impressive," meaning that they were absolutely blocking her airway. It's a darned good thing they came out, since the bronchoscopy the doctor did at the same time determined that her airway itself is still very much compromised. Before her big surgery in 2006, her trachea was 70% constricted. We were told that the surgery would all but eliminate the constriction, but it didn't. She is now 65% constricted. She also has signs of acid damage to her airway, an indication that her reflux is worse than it was before.

What to do with this information? The knowledge is new, but the truth is not -- and so, do we treat her differently, knowing how precarious her breathing is? Do we seek more opinions than this one, which was something of a "yeah, bummer, isn't it?" prognosis? Truly, what now?

I'm tired, and I'm feeling momentarily defeated, but the beat goes on. Shmoo's health will be something to watch closely all her life, and I can't burn myself out too quickly. In the meantime, I'm not sure how much navel-gazing I want to do. I may be quiet for a bit, here.

I can't believe it's snowing again here in the Chicago area. It's not fair. By way of Dooce.com, I'll let a Canadian columnist say it best: What's Eating You, Mother Nature? Is It Us?

Me: The fifteen phone calls you made from the grocery store to ask questions were not enough to get you fired from grocery shopping forever, but the fact that you bought COTTON CANDY FLAVORED YOGURT did the trick.

True: Hey! That's what she wanted!

Me: Did you also buy some Pringles-flavored canteloupe?

True: No. Too salty.

Me: How about some Cheetos-infused organic cheddar?

True: **sigh of lust** Can you imagine how good that would taste?!!?!!