Max: Season 3

It was two years ago to the minute that our lives went kerplooie in the most spectacularly wonderful way. Happy Birthday to Max! Better than the best bike ride in North Carolina; better than the best cup of coffee in the best cup; better than a 93 Volvo 240 turbo wagon, manual transmission, with air conditioning that works and fewer than 100k miles, driven by grandma at take-it-off-my-hands-pricing; better than michaladas and pescadillas on Playa La Ropa; better than the Kahlua pig omelet at the Hawaiian Style Cafe, Waimea, Big Island; better than Soul Coughing, 7th St Entry, November, 1995.

I was pretty sure, about 2.5 years ago, that we were screwed beyond belief; that the little bugger gestating away blissfully was going to be the embodiment of the very worst of me. There was Katie, the goddess of everything good and true in the world, to balance that out, but, still, there was a pretty heavy thumb on the wrong side of the scale thanks to my genetic input. At least, that was me, 2.5 years ago.

All I can say is, everyday, every moment I get to be with Max. . . I've just never been so glad to be so very, very wrong. Happy Birthday to my Son, Max.