Those beautiful eyes.

That radiant smile.

Hers could be his and as I stare at the photo of Mikaela Lynch, a beautiful little girl with autism who wandered from her family home on Mother’s Day and lost her life in a creek nearby,  I  think of all the near misses we’ve had with our own son Andrew.

Sweet, innocent, vulnerable-as-hell Andrew.

When he was first diagnosed with autism at the age of 2, the specialists made sure we understood his odds: “He’ll likely never speak. Never play with his brother. Never potty train. Never lead a normal life of any kind.” They were detailed in their description of the ways our son would fail before he even had the opportunity to try, but not one of the doctors we relied on for expert advice told us that our son would forever be in constant danger because of elopement and wandering.

Like most families raising a child with autism,we had to find that out for ourselves.

***

By the time he was well into his toddler years, it was apparent that Andrew wasn’t just exploring the world around him with a healthy curiosity found in most children. No; Andrew was consumed with running towards the very things we teach our little ones to stay away from: bodies of water, traffic, strangers. His appetite for danger was insatiable, and making an already difficult situation nearly unbearable was the fact that our son had no idea what danger was, no matter how much we tried to teach him.

My husband and I became human barricades and the world itself became our greatest nemesis. Places most families treasure such as parks, beaches, backyard swimming pools and campsites became staging grounds for our imaginations’ worst nightmares.

We devoted ourselves to keeping Andrew as safe as possible, short of rolling him in bubble wrap and locking him up forever in the confines of our home – which was quickly beginning to resemble Fort Knox. We learned to plan for every possibility, scanning our environments with the deftness of a first responder, the alertness of a combat soldier.

We refused to let the fear win by making sure Andrew was exposed to as much fun as possible, but it’s hard to have fun when the first thing on your mind are the odds stacked against you.

We slept with one eye open and even then we’d take turns waking up and checking in our our son, making sure he was in his bed, checking the locks again. Just to be sure.

***

He is 11 now. The only difference between the early years and today is that he’s much faster, more determined, willing to climb, crawl and squeeze his way out of the safety net we’ve carefully constructed over the years.

We go out less.

We are tired.

We question whether our instincts are sharp enough, our locks are tight enough.

He can reach the hotel dead bolts now; his fine motor skills have improved, his fingers are more nimble.

He is too strong for leashes; too tall for belted booster seats.

It’s safe to say that the entire family – Andrew’s little brother included – has a touch of PTSD from the everyday stress of maintaining his safety.

Saying this does not dilute our love for him.

It’s just the truth.

There isn’t a day that goes by, a moment that passes, that we aren’t utterly and completely consumed with keeping our autistic son safe.

He cannot do so for himself, and whether he consciously knows it or not, he relies on us to do it for him.

We’ve had nearly nine years of practice, and yet mistakes are made; we are, after all, human.

The near misses; they leave a taste in our mouth, a coldness in our hearts we cannot shake.

Target doesn’t sell childproof safety kits for the kind of circumstances our son and our family is up against.

***

Mikaela Lynch.

Owen Black.

Drew Howell.

These are the names of three precious children with autism who have lost their lives this last week due to wandering and elopement. Each one of these children were loved by their families; each one of these angels deserve to be honored by spreading awareness about the very real dangers of wandering.

The parents, they are the first to be blamed.
Someone always needs to be blamed.

It makes people feel better; gives them a scapegoat to turn on in the face of such devastating tragedy.

And yet, those casting these stones, those determined to have you believe that the parents of these three children weren’t doing their jobs to protect their precious kids have no idea the lengths these moms and dads would have gone to to keep their babies safe.

I am no better than the Lynch family, or the Howell family, or the Black family. My husband and I are at constant risk of losing our firstborn in the very same way these parents lost their children, because this is the nature of elopement and wandering. This is the reality of what many autism families face each and every day.

We are equally afraid.

We are equally devoted.

We are equally aware.

And today, we equally mourn the lives of these children and we offer up our love and sympathy and support to their parents and loved ones.

We also respectfully request that you refrain from the judgement that is so prevalent among those who have never chased down a defenseless child, who have never woken with the sick feeling that a door or window was maybe mistakenly left unlocked, who have never felt the dread of realizing that in a split-second, the entire world can come to a screeching halt.

Because you don’t know.

Until you do.

***

Today would be a good day to put blame and judgement aside, get on our collective knees, reach deep into our collective hearts, and pray for the strength these families will need to endure the heartache and grief they are undoubtedly experiencing.

For autism parents everywhere, these tragedies hit so close to home as we realize that on any given day, our children are mere steps from becoming a statistic themselves.

Rest in peace sweet angels. You will not be forgotten.

Sometimes, I’m tired.

Sometimes, there are days when I don’t want to put on my big girl panties and my Cloak of Advocacy (which, if you must know, is made of the softest velvet and the perfect shade of green to accentuate my eyes)  and go out into the real world and shake my fist respectively and argue productively.

And then a couple of asshats come along, comment on my blog, and remind me that narrow-minded, prejudiced, ludicrous thinking such as theirs is why I will never stop working to make the world a better place for my special needs kid and others like him.

Plus, you know, the whole Cloak of Advocacy thing is pretty cool.

Anyway, earlier this week I wrote a blog post about the Guest Assistance Pass at Disneyland; specifically my opinion on the fact that some wealthy moms are hiring disabled individuals who qualify for this pass as guides in order to bypass the regular lines.

Now, before I proceed, I want to make it known that I take no issue with the fact that people may disagree with my opinions. I don’t personally recommend it, but if it happens, so be it.  I don’t serve Kool Aid around here; you’re all entitled to your own points of view, as long as they align perfectly with mine.

What I do have a problem with is asshats. Plain and simple. If you’re an asshat, you likely won’t be getting a Christmas card from me. Actually, most of you won’t be getting a Christmas card from me, so I’ll have to think of a better punishment for being an asshat. I’ll get back to you on that but I’m pretty sure it will involve some kind of greeting card being withheld.

So back to the Disneyland post. There has been plenty of asshattery going on in the comment section:

“The writer is a paraplegic from Spinal Cord Injury. Yes, REALLY disabled, but perhaps less than those with mental problems. Which doesn’t mean I’m going to let your kid with Autism go first.”

So basically, Asshat #1 is engaging in a pissing contest over who is more disabled: him or my son.

Awesome.

Unfortunately, I’m all out of gold stars sir, so you’re just going to have to make do with this middle finger I’ve been saving for a special occasion.

Then we’ve got Asshat #2 who not only questions the need for Andrew to have an accommodation such as the Guest Assistance Pass, but who also blames me for Andrew’s developmental delays:

“I question his “need” for this accommodation, and yes, I do blame the parent. Who else is to blame for a child that can barely think for themselves?”

Oh, and he also has a solution for me!!!

“Though I think the real solution starts at trying to find an activity that doesn’t involve much walking or talking for a kid who can’t do either, instead of arbitrarily trying to find work arounds to allow them to do such things…why not keep them in their comfort zone?”

Bleeping fabulous sir! Thank you so much! Why didn’t I think of that? Could my son please borrow your shiny keys? And could we trouble you for corner to sit in where he won’t bother anyone?

Luckily, I come equipped with two middle fingers, so there’s plenty to go around.

These comments are just snippets from several different paragraphs written by two readers. TWO. Do you know how many asshats there are in this world? Two too many.

So, even though I don’t always FEEL like it, I will continue to walk around in my big girl panties (not to be confused with granny underwear) and my *insert echo here* Cloak of Advocacy, because I will not stop until the asshats are outnumbered.

Also, I know it would be super helpful if they all came wearing something like this that easily identified them, especially in large crowds.

But as a general rule of thumb, asshats are pretty easy to pick out, especially once they open their mouths.

Now, who’s with me? There’s plenty of Cloaks of Advocacy to go around.

(you’re on your own with the underwear though).

Yesterday I took my younger son Ian to a doctor’s appointment.

I arrived early, knowing I was going to be subjected to a stack of paperwork that would take me ages to fill out.

Except it didn’t:

I forget sometimes.

I forget just how vastly different the lives of my two sons are.

I mean, I never forget the obvious:  that Andrew has special needs and Ian doesn’t,  that Andrew can’t talk and Ian can,  that Andrew has frequent flier miles at our local children’s hospital and Ian has enough visitor stickers to wallpaper his entire room.

But the details of their differences, the subtle reminders that sneak up on me in the middle of a doctor’s waiting room; it’s those moments that often catch me off guard, surprise me, leave me a little startled that I had somehow forgotten in the first place.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m grateful, so so grateful that Ian is healthy and strong (not to mention it only takes me five minutes to fill out his medical history).

It’s just, for only being 18 months apart in age, they are worlds apart in their life experiences.

I guess that once in a while, that reality can get a little overwhelming for this mom.

It’s not something I can influence or change or remedy.

It just is.

And anyway, the only thing that really matters in the end is that they have each other.

Our special needs son Andrew loves Disneyland; but that’s not what makes him unique. After all, you’d be hard pressed to find a child that doesn’t dream of spending day in and day out at the world’s most famous amusement park.

What does make Andrew unique, however, is that unlike many other children his age, he does not have the physical stamina to walk through the park without collapsing under the physical strain, nor is he able to navigate the long lines and often suffocating crowds without completely coming unhinged, from the inside out.

You see, Andrew has autism, epilepsy, and global physical and developmental delays that can turn a magical day at The Kingdom into a day of hell, and there’s not an over-sized Disney character or Lightning McQueen shaped lollipop big enough to turn things around once the downward spiral has begun.

But like most special needs families, we want to give Andrew every opportunity to experience the things he loves, and Disneyland is no exception. Thankfully, the park has always been amazing at accommodating our son by providing a special pass that allows us to get him on rides more quickly and efficiently, and we are grateful that he is able to go on his favorite rides in a way that’s accessible for him.

We aren’t the only ones who rely on this pass, as it allows individuals with a variety of physical and developmental challenges to safely experience the park on gentler terms. Like us, many of these people would have to forfeit their day at the park if these passes were unavailable.

So imagine my absolute anger and disgust when I heard about a trend among the 1% in our country that involves hiring disabled tour guides to pose as family members so that everyone can enjoy the “perks” of an accommodation that  makes all the difference in the lives of special needs individuals and their families.

This is lower than low; it’s flat-out criminal. Abusing a program in place for those who truly need it is outrageous, and it only serves to reinforce many suspicions and asinine prejudices society holds against those with special needs, mainly that they’re milking the system and using their diagnoses as a way to take advantage of able-bodied and developmentally typical peers.

Because yeah, the moment Andrew was diagnosed, the first thought my husband and I had was “YES!!!!!! Now we don’t have to wait in those pesky, long Disneyland lines!! Woohoooo!! It’s all downhill from here!”

Right.

Do we appreciate the pass? Yes. Do we consider it a “perk” of Andrew’s condition? My God, no. It’s not a PERK; it’s a way of making an experience accessible; it levels the playing field for our son (On a side note, please stop telling us how LUCKY we are that we get to by through the lines faster. LUCKY is not the word that comes to mind).

These socialite bitches hiring special needs guides need a swift kick in the ass, from Mickey and the gang themselves.

As for us, we’ll continue to enjoy our visits to Disneyland and try not to care that people may be judging us as we walk ahead of them in line, knowing in our hearts that our son is worth the accommodation.

And in case any of you wealthy jackasses reading this are wondering, my kid is not for hire.

**UPDATE** – For the record, I do know that not only the wealthy engage in fraudulent behavior regarding the guest assistance passes. It’s been brought to my attention by several readers that individuals of various economic situations -  as well as a diverse age-range – take advantage of these passes and blatantly misuse them. I know this guys. I see it too. I reference the wealthy in this post because it’s in response to the report out today regarding upper class families hiring special needs guides in order to cut through the lines. I’m not in any way suggesting that only the rich are misusing the passes. Jackasses are abundant among all socioeconomic classes. There. All better?

It’s not a conversation you expect to have with a 2nd grader.

I was in the car the other day with my son Andrew, and my best friend’s daughter, Berkeley (yeah, like the school).

We were in the McDonald’s drive-thru (hey, I don’t just want my kids to be unhealthy) when Berkeley spoke up from the back seat:

“Auntie Jo?”

“Yes honey?”

“Are you going to get someone to watch Andrew when you die? I mean, it’s not that I want you to die, at least, not right now. I mean, I don’t want you to die at all, but when you do die, will you have someone there to watch Andrew?”

“Um. Wow. Well, uh Berkeley, that’s a great question and one that does not make me uncomfortable in the least. I’m definitely not uncomfortable right now, nor am I finding it hard to speak, even though my mouth suddenly feels as if I’ve been sucking on old sand. And the sweat dripping under my armpits has nothing to do with the non-existent panic attack I’m most certainly not having.  So yeah, great question.”

<silence>

(Here’s where I thought I  could get away with pretending like we didn’t just engage in a dialogue about my impending death by completely ignoring Berkeley, but she’s just a teeny bit smarter than that, thanks to her equally smart mom. *Way to go Heather).

“Auntie Jo?”

“Um, yeah Berkeley?”

“So, who’s gonna watch Andrew when you die?”

“Well honey, when and IF that ever happens, like when I’m extremely old – like ancient ruins old – then I hope that Ian will step up and help take care of his big brother someday.  Ian will also be able to hire kind, hard working people to help take care of Andrew because we’ll make sure to leave him money for that very reason. And I hope that other family members will pitch in when they can. I’d like to believe that Andrew will always be with people who love him very much. Does that answer your question honey?”

“Yes.”

<silence>

“Auntie Jo?”

“Yeah Berkeley?”

“I will help take care of Andrew too.”

And with that, Berkeley proceeded to feed my son his happy meal fries – as if to drive home the point that she was very serious about her offer – while I sat behind the wheel of my car and tried hard to process what she had just said. This beautiful child, this 7-year-old little girl was ready and willing to sign up to help take care of my son someday, without hesitation, without a second thought.

It took about five seconds for the gravity of what she had just said to sink in.

And then:

Cue the ugly cry.*

*For future reference, might I suggest you refrain from engaging in the ugly cry while in the presence of young children, or any other human being for that matter. Hearing things like “Auntie Jo, you have ginormous bubbles coming out of your nose!” and “You’re getting tears in my cheeseburger!” tend to ruin the mood.

But yeah. Other than scaring the crap out of both kids while I sobbed like a wounded animal in the McDonalds drive-thru, I think the conversation went pretty well.

And Andrew?

He’s got one more amazing person willing to go the extra mile for him.

Andrew and Berkeley.

Cue the ugly cry. Again.

We discuss our children’s diagnosis and challenges like most parents discuss refrigerator art or the dangers of Tonka toys cluttering the hallways.

We know better than to fill up our calendars with permanent marker; we prefer pencil instead.

We linger just a little bit longer when we hug, because so often those extra five seconds can mean the difference between a really bad day and a heart full of hope.

We stick together when one of us falls apart, and we stay after to help pick up the pieces.

We’re too busy gossiping about our children’s medical entourage (“I can’t believe Dr. Thompson hired that nurse that was fired by Dr. Smith.  And did you see the way she was holding that syringe?” *insert eye-roll here*) to care about the ongoing antics of the really desperate housewives in our neighborhood.

Some of us turn to extra carbs, extra wine or extra shopping to get through the tough times. Some of us even inhale. But we never judge. Ever.

We take turns wondering if the perpetual crap will ever stop hitting the ginormous fan that is our life. The rest of us bring over extra carbs, extra wine, or extra incense.

We have two kinds of friends: the ones that can keep up when the conversation consists mainly of abbreviations (“I had to leave the IEP before we got through the BIP since the BCBA screwed up the FAA and now we’re asking for an IEE. FML.”) and the ones that can’t (“WTF????”).

We strive to always be allies with those working with our children; we rely on their expertise, their passion, their professional insight that can often shed light on an otherwise baffling situation. But God help anyone that messes with our kids by undermining their efforts, sabotaging their intellect, and refusing to see the value of their strengths and the potential in their abilities by providing sub-par services and diluted dreams.

We aren’t any more special than other parents. We’re just more likely to do a face plant into our plate of spaghetti during dinner (hey, you’ve gotta sleep sometime) and save the noodles stuck to our forehead (hey, you’ve gotta eat sometime).

We aren’t jealous by nature (usually). But there are moments when we come across situations that have us seeing green, like when people brag about how they get to go pee alone, whenever they want to. Whatever.

We have more charts than anyone you’ll ever meet in your entire life, guaranteed. If there were ever a chart competition a la The Olympics, we’d be gold medal contenders. If charts were the only thing standing between us and a zombie apocalypse, let’s just say, we got this. We have feeding charts, potty charts, behavior charts, ABC data charts, sleep pattern charts, growth charts, phases of the moon charts, therapy charts, and charts that help organize all the other charts. But there’s not a chart in the world that can keep track of our car keys, especially when we were supposed to be at speech therapy 5 minutes ago (according to the chart, of course).

We dare to hope even if it means our hearts risk being shattered into a million pieces.

We don’t give up or give in, choosing instead to cross the finish line – no matter how long it takes, each and every time – because our children are worth it.

We can hear the R-word being used from across the room and regardless of how many times we have heard it in the past, it still feels like a solid punch to the gut that knocks the wind right out of us.

We think that when people tell us we have the patience of a saint, they must be talking about that one saint who was known for being extremely impatient. That, or the bar is set incredibly low.

We wish for everyday things, like five minutes of extra sleep, five pounds miraculously missing from the scale, five extra dollars tucked into the pocket of our jeans. But we also wish for big ticket items, like the perfect IEP, a brilliant doctor who knows we know our children best (that’s the brilliant part), a more accepting, accessible world for our kids, and last-minute miracles no one else would dare to believe in.

We pray

We curse

We blame

We forgive

We make mistakes

We learn

We do better

We are blemished

We are tired

We are in desperate need of a shower

We are madly in love with our sons and daughters

We are forever changed for the better

We are special needs parents

I’m aware.

I’m aware that the majority of society does not look too kindly on having to slow down and wait for someone slower and clumsier than they are.

I’m aware of every sound way before you are, desperately trying to ascertain whether the next noise my son hears will be the undoing of him.

I’m aware of every stare, every peculiar glance, every judgmental nod of the head.

I’m aware of statistics that seem to change with each year, and that no matter what they say, my son is not just a number.

I’m aware of giggling children on playgrounds and their relaxed mothers sitting on benches, catching up on mundane things, or fiery gossip about a next door neighbor.

I’m aware that bribery is frowned upon among experts in the parenting field, and I’m aware that I don’t give a damn.

I’m aware we may pack up, get in the car, get half-way there, only to turn around and go back home again because what in the hell were we thinking in the first place?

I’m aware a shared diagnosis will not automatically make us all friends; I’m all too aware it may even make us enemies.

I’m aware a full night’s sleep is necessary for overall health and happiness and that I have a better chance of finding the holy grail than achieving uninterrupted slumber.

I’m aware that little children are being taught to hate and fear anything and anyone that’s different than they are, and that hate is harder on the heart than love.

I’m aware the world is impatient.

I’m aware I have made many mistakes.

I’m aware I still lay awake at night sometimes, and dare myself to wonder if maybe, somehow, this is all my fault.

I’m aware that many people pity us. I’m aware they are pitiful.

I’m aware that a good sense of humor will go a long way in keeping a nervous breakdown at bay.

I’m aware a husband and wife should find time to high five in the hallway when they’ve managed not to strangle one another after a particularly hairy day.

I’m aware my younger son gets overlooked sometimes and that no matter how hard I try, things will never be equal or fair or perfect and that he’s somehow turning into an amazing human being anyway, who loves his brother just the way he is and will spend his life defending him.

I’m aware sometimes I only want to talk to people who “get it.”

I’m aware some traditions will never make sense and that it’s important to start ones that do.

I’m aware there are crappy professionals and great parents, but I’m also aware that it goes both ways.

I’m aware I’m terrified of what the future holds for my son, who will someday grow up to be a man.

I’m aware there are days when I’m phoning it in.

I’m aware simple carbs won’t fix everything but I’ll be damned if shoving food with little nutritional value doesn’t take some of the sting out of an IEP meeting from hell.

I’m aware it’s April, and that May and June will come and my son will still be deserving of equality and respect and compassion and that it’s my job to make sure I do something each day to ensure that happens for him.

I’m aware that we have a long way to go before I feel the world is a safe and kind place for my child.

I’m aware I need your help to make it better.

I’m aware.

Are you?

Every morning I put my special needs son Andrew on the school bus

buckle him in

cover him in love

and cross my fingers and toes that he’ll be okay

while he’s away

Every morning

he stares at me through the window

while I wave and blow kisses and jump up and down

hoping my grin does not betray me

and that he cannot sense

the fear and panic in my heart

This is our dance

every morning,

our gaze never breaking

until the bus rounds the corner out of sight

and I can let my shoulders collapse from the burden

of having to trust the outside world

But today

my son managed only a quick glance in my direction

distracted instead by a fellow passenger

who brought his favorite book in his backpack

so he could read to him on the way to school

For the first time

(since ever)

my son was not sitting alone

too busy to watch me as he sat next to his friend

their heads huddled together

a simple story about some green eggs and ham

keeping them occupied and delighted on their journey towards their day

For the first time

(since ever)

I blew kisses

and waved

and jumped up and down

and he did not care

and my shoulders felt a little lighter

and my shaky grin

was replaced with the kind of smile

that makes people wonder what you’re up to

(which I realized was still on my face

long after the bus had rounded the corner)

Your father

he loves to tell the story

of how the nurses had to part your hair with a comb

after you were born

I love the part

when my water broke at midnight

and your dad

fast asleep on the hospital cot next to me

nearly broke his neck jumping out of bed

thinking you were about to make your appearance

(haha! if only it were that easy!)

and

that I waited nearly 17 hours before I finally gave in

and begged the doctor for an epidural

(It makes me feel like a badass to say that)

But these are

just tiny details

in a life-changing day

for two young, awkward people in love

who thought they knew everything

only to find out

they knew absolutely nothing at all

I cannot sum up our 11 glorious years with you

in a simple blog post

or a complex poem

I rely on words every single day of my life

but when it comes to expressing

how I feel about you

what you mean to me

how the world took on new meaning entirely the moment you entered it

words elude me Andrew

and I find myself

uncharacteristically

speechless

I suppose

the closest I can come

(with mere consonants and vowels at my disposal)

is that

ME

became

WE

that

LIFE

became

LOVE

that

I had no idea

I had been holding my breath

until

you came

and set it

free

That

we

were

merely living

in

bits and

pieces

until you came

and made us

whole

Photo courtesy Melody Calvert Photography

Happy 11th Birthday my darling firstborn.

We love you.

He started the day with his fingers crossed that the baseball fields would be dry.

It hailed here yesterday and we Southern Californians are, well, a bit wimpy when it comes to weather.

Our  Parks and Recreation officials tend to take rain very seriously and baseball fields are often closed after a downpour.

Even if the last drop to hit the ground was over 24 hours ago.

So he waited.

And while he waited he gathered the navy and orange jersey, the crisp white pants, the bright socks and belt,  and the brand new hat.

And he folded them gently and placed them on the couch.

For his brother.

If possible, our young son Ian was more excited for this baseball game – his brother Andrew’s first – than we were.

So he kept his fingers crossed and kept watch over the uniform he had carefully prepared and waited.

And just when he was sure the game was going to be cancelled, I looked up from my laptop and our eyes met and he knew then that I had gotten word that the game was ON.

Andrew (left) and Ian, ready to head out to the first Challenger baseball game of the season. He helped get his brother's uniform ready. I may have shed a tear. Or a few more than that.

Andrew sits in the dugout for the first time with his brother Ian (center) and family friend Nathan (right)

It was amazing.

It was spectacular.

It was everything we had hoped it would be and more.

And you know what?

Even if he never wants to play again (which I sincerely doubt, judging by the big, beautiful grin he was sporting the entire time), it wouldn’t matter because the bottom line is he got a chance to try.

A chance.

That’s all we want for our son Andrew.

We want him to have a life filled with chances, so that he has the opportunity to decide whether or not he wants to participate in something.

We want it to be his decision, and not just the world telling him “NO Andrew, you CAN’T do this, you SHOULDN’T try that, you AREN’T capable or worthy.”

Today, out on that ball field, there were no CAN’Ts or SHOULDN’Ts or DONT’s.

There were no score cards.

There were no over-competitive parents screaming at their kids to run faster, hit farther, catch better.

There were no awkward silences or stares standing in the way of blossoming new friendships among players and their buddies.

There were no diagnoses or medical charts or IEP goals.

There were only boys and girls playing the most beautiful game of baseball I have ever see.

Andrew and his crew taking a pre-game moment to relax.

Warming up before game with daddy and brother.

Andrew gets the game started by being first up to bat.

Andrew runs to first base with guidance from his brother (left) and family friend Nathan (right). The buddies truly get so much out of the experience!

Andrew's buddies help keep him focused and running in the right direction.

Andrew heads towards home plate.

Grandma and grandpa watch their first grandson play his very first game of baseball.

Andrew gets a hearty congrats from his grandpa after he touched home plate for the first time.

Post-game family photo-op

Oh. And there were tears.

Lots and lots of ginormous, happy tears.