I run through the front door. Henry follows with our bags in hand. I hear the slap of their little hands across the hardwood floor as they round the corner. Hope finds us first. She is always first at everything. She needs to be held first and fed first. Hope is a little high strung. Henry jokes she is exactly like me, lovingly of course. She babbles as she makes a beeline for me at Mach speed in her half-crawl, half-downward dog position. She’s so eager to walk. I won’t be surprised if she is running marathons before her first birthday.