I had always wanted to be the father of a son. I adore my girls and wouldn't trade them for anything, but there was a part of me that wanted to make up for what I felt I missed in my relationship with my dad. If our third would have also been of the female persuasion, I would have been completely fine with that. Girls rock! Girls rule and boys drool (which is actually true, I've come to find). But I still wanted a drooling boy. When Marty was having her ultra sound for her third pregnancy, we wanted to know. The tech performing the ultra sound was kind of cranky and not very personable. She didn't ask if we wanted to know, so as she worked, I finally asked, "Can you tell us if it's a boy or a girl?" "You want to know?" she asked. Um... I wouldn't have asked if... YES, we want to know! Then she very cooly said, "It's a boy." And my heart soared.
Fast forward 6 years. We went to Max's first baseball practice this week. I never played any organized sports but I always wanted my kids to have the experience. I had so many unspoken desires for that first practice. Max didn't have to be the best, but I didn't want him to be... the least experienced. I wanted him to enjoy it. I wanted him to go on with it through the years and have that team photo on the mantle along with his individual shot with him holding the bat over his shoulder. I wanted to be there for him. I wanted to cheer him on and encourage him when he made an error.
Max stepped up to the plate, first time batting off a pitcher. First pitch, swing and a miss. Second pitch, the same. Third pitch, CRACK, ball goes flying over his coach's head with a repeat performance the next time he was up to bat. And just like that ball, my heart soared.
His first game is tomorrow and I'm excited. But today is his birthday, and we get to mini golf with three of his friends from school and eat pizza. Today we celebrate Max Colby Couch. Happy Birthday, my son.