A birthday boy and his dad
Today, I'm celebrating six years of Max—and six years of Daddy. Because if it weren't for Dave, Max wouldn't be doing anywhere near as well as he is. Dave's been an amazing father since Day One. He was first to hold Max (I was drugged out from the C-section) and I remember looking up in a haze and seeing Dave holding this little bundle so gingerly and staring wondrously, as if he couldn't believe that, yes, I'd had a baby in my belly.
After we got home from the two weeks in the NICU (things went disastrously wrong after the first 24 hours, someday soon I'll tell you how we found out Max had a stroke), I was depressed. I was mourning what had happened to Max, and I felt sick with worry about his future. Oh, and I hated breastfeeding, but I was determined to give Max anything I could. Then one night, I hit rock bottom and I couldn't even hold Max. All I wanted to do was lie in bed and sob. Dave came into the bedroom with Max and tried to talk to me. I said something like, "My worst nightmare actually happened." And Dave said, and these words I recall exactly, "Honey, look at him. Does he look like a nightmare? He's beautiful."
That is my sweet, loving, very sane husband, Dave. Over the years, he has done everything for Max—squeezed himself into a narrow glass tube with him for hyperbaric oxygen therapy, woken up at 7:00 on Saturday mornings to take Max to horseback riding therapy, fed him, changed him, bathed him, you name it. "Hands-on" doesn't begin to describe Dave. It's more like heart-on, soul-on, entire-being-on.
Happy, happy birthday, Max. I am in awe of how far you have come, and grateful that you've never stopped being determined, bright and beyond adorable. Dave, I love you. And no more complaining that I never put pictures of you on the blog. xoxoxo
