Free Switched at Birth: The True Story of a Mother's Journey by Kathryn Kennish, ABC Family Page B

guy.
    “Well, your friend is a lucky guy,” John informed me, then grinned. “You enjoy the game, beautiful.”
    I think I actually giggled. And then he left.
    Do I have to tell you that halfway through the first inning, the third baseman turned around and scanned the bleachers until he found me, and when our eyes met, he tipped his hat and winked?
    And is it necessary for me to report that after the game I politely told Trevor to go on home without me and I waited for John (feeling deliciously reckless and a little bit naughty) like some kind of groupie outside the clubhouse door?
    And you probably wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that he wasn’t at all surprised to find me waiting there, and that we went out for drinks and halfway through my third glass of Chardonnay I knew I no longer needed to bide my time at The Gap, because I now knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. In a matter of a few short hours I had fallen completely and totally in love with John Kennish. Trevor was genuinely disappointed when I broke the news that our quasi-courtship was over. He told me that, matrimonially speaking, a professional athlete was a bad bet, and my mother agreed.
    But I didn’t care what they thought. I was meant to meet John Kennish. I’m certain of it. So many forces combined to see to it, that I can only assume the universe deemed it necessary. And if I believe that, then I must also believe that I was meant to give birth to one baby and bring home another.
    Because despite the confusion, and the disruption and the general weirdness of it all, I know I wouldn’t trade one minute of the time I’ve had with Bay and Daphne, or the times still yet to come.
    It’s pointless to second-guess the universe.

Chapter Six
    Fatherhood: Easy enough to achieve, difficult to perfect.
    John, though, took to it like a duck to water (or like a big-league third baseman to the car wash business). Which is to say, naturally. To be perfectly honest, I was a little surprised at first. I always knew he’d be a good father, I just never dreamed that he would love it— love it —as much as he did. He was a man’s man, after all, a “big ol’ lug” as they might say in an old movie. He was a jock, for God’s sake!
    But when Toby came into the world, my big ol’ lug morphed into a big ol’ creampuff. He sang lullabies, he changed diapers, he cradled our infant son in the crook of his throwing arm and read to him from Peter Rabbit and The Little Prince and Sports Illustrated .
    Ladies, is there anything sexier than a man holding a baby? I think not.
    So Toby pretty much ran the place. Like most first-time parents, we were willing slaves to that powdery little bundle of baby-boy-ness. He set the pace, made the rules, lorded over us with a drooly, toothless grin, and John and I couldn’t have been happier to do his bidding.
    When John traveled with the team, he made me promise to sit his son in front of the television and let him watch the games. It was silly, I knew, but I did it. I loved watching my husband play ball, and as I fed Toby his organic strained carrots, I’d provide color commentary, a running play-by-play of the game:
    “ Daddy just tagged that bad man who was trying to steal third base,” I’d report proudly, and Toby would gurgle with joy.
    “And what do we think of those icky old New York Yankees? ” I’d prompt, and Toby would respond with a loud, wet raspberry, spewing orange mush all over the place.
    When Toby turned four, John Kennish was the first father in line for Tee Ball sign-ups. In suburban communities like ours Tee Ball is a preschool rite of passage. Toby, in all modesty, was a natural. His swing was level and packed a fair amount of power for such a little tyke. On Saturdays when John wasn’t playing out of town, he’d take Toby outside to “have a catch,” and by third grade my son was shagging flies and fielding grounders like a champ. Rumor had it the local Little League coaches