Percolating

The first day of spring always makes me think of birth. No, not as a metaphor: a real birth! I was in a labor room on this very day a short twenty three years ago, in the middle of the night, dancing the Charleston with Colette and awaiting David's leisurely arrival.

My doctor wasn't on call. The doctor hadn't been on call with my first son, either, so this time I met everyone in the practice. I mean, if they're reaching into my nether regions, I ought to have met them on a prior occasion right side up.

Well one must have been on errands, because about 3:30 am, this hippie guy breezed in wearing a sleeveless UC Berkeley sweatshirt, sweatpants, big hair and a dazzling smile. Let's get this show on the road! Was this an intern?

After hippie Doc explained his holistic approach to childbirth, he took my hand and gently talked me through it: slow and easy, and before I knew it a beautiful little boy was happily peeking at me through half closed eyelids in the crook of my arm. The only thing missing for Doc was a catcher's glove.

With a start like that, I should have figured my son would be amazing. He was the most naturally joyous and loving child I ever saw. His tender, inquisitive nature took life by storm. A natural athlete, statesman, banker, and friend, he thrived everywhere. Sensitive natures have ample challenges, and he was no different, but he kept at it, forcing himself forward, surrounded by the smartest and most dedicated friends, finding a way.

Personalities percolate over the years and become stronger, more robust. The wishes I always wished for him were to have a dream to pursue, a happy life to live, and be a good man in word and deed. Since he's already doing that, I'd better just wish him a happy birthday and remind him how much he is loved.