THE PARENT TRIP: Courtney Schmidt and Daryl Faust of Quarryville

Courtney figures that the penny was a sign.

Her family has a habit of finding pennies at portentous moments. Such as the one dated 1988, the year of Courtney's birth, that was peeking out from under the carpet the day her beloved grandfather died.

So last Valentine's Day, when she spotted a brownish glint on the brick pavers outside her office, she picked it up. Her period was already late, and she had been toying with the idea of taking a pregnancy test. That penny said: Do it.

The next morning, Daryl woke to the metronome of Courtney's pacing in their bedroom.

"I've got something to tell you, but I'll wait until you get up," she said.

"OK. I'm up."

The news, Daryl said, was a reality check for both of them. Even though they'd been inseparable since their first date in 2010 - a low-key evening of beer, pizza, and watching Fight Club at Daryl's apartment - they'd figured on waiting a while for marriage or kids.

They kept the news quiet for 12 weeks - "the longest and hardest secret I've ever kept from my mother," Courtney says - and told their parents at Easter, with copies of a framed sonogram affixed with thought-bubble stickers that said, "Baby Faust due October 28."

Courtney, an insurance underwriter, loved the feeling of carrying a hidden world inside her. "I liked feeling him move before anyone could see him move," she says. "I felt like it was our little secret."

It was a smooth pregnancy - some nausea and moodiness the first three months; some Braxton-Hicks contractions around 31 weeks. That's what Courtney thought she was feeling one Saturday in late August, when her belly kept tightening and then releasing.

Her doctor advised a trip to the hospital, just to be safe; by the time they arrived at Women and Babies Hospital in Lancaster, Courtney was in equal parts pain and denial. It was still eight weeks until her due date. They hadn't packed a bag or asked anyone to care for their dogs.

In triage, her doctor delivered the news: Courtney was already six centimeters dilated. This baby would arrive in the next 24 to 48 hours. In the meantime, Courtney would remain confined to bed. "He said, 'Gravity is not your friend,' " she recalls.

Daryl felt the blood drain from his head; he staggered to a chair, just in time. He kept flashing on the long punch list that remained at home: paint the baby's room blue; install the baseboards; hang the blinds. He wasn't ready. They weren't ready.

But Logan was: After a restless night and four efficient pushes the next morning, he arrived. Daryl was expecting to see an underdeveloped preemie, not the 4-pound, 13-ounce baby the doctor held up. "My first thought was: That's a real flipping baby! A regular kid. A little goopy, but a real kid."

Doctors had cautioned the couple about developmental issues that might complicate their son's first weeks. He'd need to remain in the neonatal intensive-care unit, perhaps for as long as a month. He'd need oxygen, a heart monitor, a feeding tube.

They were allowed to pat him, but not to stroke his petal-soft skin; that touch would be overstimulating to his still-in-progress nervous system. For Courtney, who pumped milk every three hours round the clock and drove to the NICU twice a day, those were agonizing weeks.

"He would cry, and it was devastating that I couldn't pick him up and console him. I had to pat him through a hole" in the Isolette. Even when she and Daryl were able to hold Logan, they couldn't stray far because of the wires tethering him to machines that measured his heart rate, his oxygen level, and his breaths per minute. They gauged success in the tiniest increments: how many milliliters of breast milk, how many minutes between drops in blood pressure.

Working full time as a mechanical engineer and going to the NICU every evening, Daryl managed to cross items off his list: He hung the dream-catcher mobile, installed the closet organizer, and framed the woodland-themed decorations in Logan's room.

Courtney's aunt made a pilgrimage to Babies R Us for outfits small enough to fit a preemie, including the spiffy coral-and-navy striped pants with matching hoodie that became his going-home outfit.

That first day home, exactly a month after his birth, was both celebratory and nerve-racking. Courtney and Daryl introduced Logan to his "puppy brothers," their white Cockapoo, Finn, and their English bulldog, Marshall. A Mylar balloon that Courtney had received the day of Logan's birth - a giant baby bottle emblazoned, "It's a boy!" - was, miraculously, still afloat.

They still had to learn to trust that their baby would be OK. "He wasn't hooked up to the monitors anymore," Courtney recalls. "We thought: If he stops breathing, how will we know?"

Logan suffered reflux, constipation, and gas. An umbilical hernia made his belly button protrude. Some days, both he and his sleep-starved mother sobbed. "I was calling the pediatrician every other day," Courtney says. "He wasn't sleeping. It was rough."

Finally, she listened to her own gut feeling where Logan's GI distress was concerned; she stopped nursing and eventually found a formula he could tolerate. And Daryl - the laid-back foil to Courtney's anxious temperament - managed to calm them both. "It's OK, buddy. Just relax," he would tell Logan, over and over.

After five months, they've finally found their groove: Logan is more alert, more comfortable and responsive. He giggles when Courtney wears her hair in a bun that bobs on top of her head. He goes to sleep with a medley of rock lullabies by Metallica, Led Zeppelin, and Bob Marley.

Logan is the gift they didn't expect, the luck that found them, whether they were ready or not. In his room, amid images of cartoon bears and above the toddler-size bookshelves, there is that Valentine's Day penny, bright copper in a frame.

If you've become a parent - for the first, second or fifth time - within the last six months, e-mail us why we should feature your story: parents@phillynews.com.

(Giving birth, adopting, or becoming a stepparent or guardian all count.) Unfortunately, we can't respond individually to all submissions. If your story is chosen, you will be contacted.EndText