To Andrew, On His Birthday

Yesterday was my son's birthday, so I found myself thinking back to his birth.

                                               To Andrew, On His Birthday

                               You were born to be the baseball fan you’ve become
                               since I filled the labor room with Little League
                               chatter as I Lamazed your mother on.
                               Way to be. Way to be. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
                               Pant. Pant. Pant. Blow. Pant. Pant. Pant. Blow.
                               That’s it. That’s it. That’s it. You got it. You got it.
                               Relax. Relax. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.
                               All the way from dilation to delivery, and before that,
                               all the waiting, like extra innings that went on and on,
                               nothing happening until everything happened –
                               your mother came through in the clutch
                               and you slid safely headfirst home.

Note to foreign readers and non-baseball fans:  Little League players are known for their constant chatter during a game (Swing, batter batter. Swing batter. Shove hard. Shove hard to urge the batter to strike out and the pitcher to throw hard, etc. I've substituted phrases from Lamaze childbirth coaching in the poem.).  "Extra innings"  refers to a game that goes beyond the normal length. Baseball is a slow-paced game in which little happens for long stretches of time until, all of a sudden, there's a whole bunch of action.  And if someone slides home safely in an extra innings game, that probably means they've just scored the winning run.