I sat in the darkness and watched images flash across the screen. I watched soldiers relax in Saddam's palace, former prisoners act out torture and robed women wave to passing tanks.

Each morning, I awoke exhausted and bleary-eyed, hoping to be one day closer to both a good night's sleep and the end of this war.

In the wee hours on Wednesday morning, I witnessed tanks roll through downtown Baghdad and a noose be fastened around the neck of Saddam's statue.

By then, all three of us were coughing and miserable.

After breakfast, I tuned in again, and allowed my daughter to see the jubilant crowds running through the streets.

I pointed to the TV screen and said, "Look at those people cheering. Do you know why they're so happy?"

She solemnly shook her head no. "They're happy because Daddy and his friends helped them!"

She watched in silence for a moment. "No like this!" she said with a frown, and demanded "Sesame Street."

On the way to the doctor, I listened to Secretary Rumsfeld and President Bush on the radio until I was reminded to "take turns." I sang along to Toddler's Favorite Nursery Rhymes the rest of the way.

Later, I drove home with two children and four ear infections, and again turned on the radio. I learned that Baghdad had fallen; the Iraqi people had been liberated.

Yes, the end is in sight. I'm amazed at the capabilities of our military, thrilled Saddam is finished and glad the Iraqis are appreciating our troops.

But I feel little relief tonight. Baghdad is still a dangerous place. Pockets of resistance are still shooting at our troops.

For me, this conflict isn't over until my husband comes home. That's when I'll celebrate.