Nothing Like I Pictured

I sent the camera off with Dad, asked him to please take pictures. "It's your first father-son trip to see the Tribe play," I reminded him. "It's totally picture-worthy." (And blog-worthy. Don't forget blog-worthy. Because as much as I love the picture of that barn in the last post, Grandparents can't survive forever on my dear diary diatribes and my what-does-that-even-MEAN poetry attempts.)

So he obliged. He took four pictures, even though I would have taken forty (and not just of Fausto Carmona). But I digress.

Apparently, while Dani and I stayed home and read every last Lily book until she fell asleep I couldn't take it anymore, Caed was trying Cracker Jacks for the first time. At a ballgame. (Mythic moment, if you ask me.)

Then, to top it all off, the home team won. Commence the fireworks.

My boys came home beaming. Caed chattered in rapid fire glee, describing in great detail how the Indians beat the team that is higher up in the scores (first in division), and how the big hot dog ran right into the ketchup guy and mustard guy and made the mustard fall over, how his 3D glasses made the fireworks fall right onto his nose. And he leaned in close, lined his twinkling eyes right up to mine and then poked me right on the nose with his finger. "Like that!" he giggled.

I looked over at Larry, and there was no holding back his smile as he watched Caed carry on, now three hours beyond bedtime, about this big league game.

Never mind that the tickets were free or that the seats were fantastic.

The day I found out I was carrying a baby boy, I pictured moments like this. And now, here we are. Here they are, nothing like I pictured, right in front of me. Closer than fireworks with 3D glasses, crisper than air on an autumn evening, brighter than stadium lights in celebration sky.

Nothing like I pictured.
So, so very much better.

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