Happy Birthday, Mini-Me

Posted: July 2, 2008 in kids

5 years ago today, Cameron burst onto the scene.


Yep…my little man turns 5 today.

On July 2, 2003, I woke up at about 2 in the morning.

My wife wasn’t in bed.

I knew this because I wasn’t being beaten about the head or neck because of my snoring.


Scarlett Johansson or Jessica Alba wasn’t there either…

…but this is about my son, so let’s not bring my normal thought processes into this.



I went downstairs and there, in the family room, was my wife sitting on my chair.

Me: “What’s up?”

Wife: “I’m having contractions.”

Me: “Want to go to the hospital?”

Wife: “No..no…I called the hospital and they said I should wait until they’re 8 minutes apart.”

Me: “Okay.”

I then did what ANY concerned husband would do who’s wife was beginning her labor:

I went back to bed.

Needless to say, I did not win “Husband of the Year” in 2003.

When the alarm finally went off at 5:30, I rolled over.

No wife.

(Again, no Scarlett or Jessica, either. So far, this morning is just totally sucking ass.)

I went downstairs and my wife was still sitting there on my chair.

Me: “Morning. Did you make coffee?”

(I believe this also negated me from ‘Husband of the Year’ running for the next two years as well)

Wife: “Call my mom. Let’s go.”

My daughter was just about 3 at the time and – since we couldn’t really trust her home alone yet (we waited until she was 4 for that responsibility) – we called my Mother-in-Law to watch her.

Then…we headed to the hospital.

In the “prep” room, the nurse came in.

Nurse: “How are you doing?”


Me: “I’m great. Is there any coffee anywhere?”

The nurse then lifted up my wife’s johnny to take a look.


I’m not kidding. She said, “Holy Shit!”

As a side note, the name of this hospital was “Holy Family Catholic Medical Center.”

Just thought that was worth mentioning.

Apparently, my wife was pretty much giving birth at that very moment.

Wife: “It hurts. It hurts. Can I have an epidural, now? PLEASE?!

When my daughter was born almost three years earlier, my wife had an epidural.

As such, she really doesn’t remember the child birth…

…as she was as lucid as Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan on a field trip to the liquor store.

Nurse: “Sorry, honey. It’s too late for an epidural.”

Strike one.

My wife started sobbing uncontrollably.

(As would Britney and Lindsay had they arrived and the liquor store been closed)

Nurse: “I’ll call your doctor right now. We have to move you NOW.

Me: “The coffee, too? Cream and two sugars. Thanks, hon.”

I’m starting to get a caffeine headache.

It hurts a little…I hope she hurries.

Once we were moved into the delivery room…God handed us strike two.

Nurse: “Honey…I’m sorry. Your doctor is on his way to Connecticut to a funeral. He can’t be here.”

My wife, at this point, begins losing it.

No doctor. No epidural.

And this f*cking headache isn’t getting any better, people!! Seriously…just some F*CKING FOLGER’S CRYSTALS WOULD BE NICE!!

This is when Doctor Shawarma (or Doctor Curry, I can never get the Indian doctor names straight) enters the room.

As he donned his catcher’s mitt and stared and prodded my wife’s cha-cha to get the little bugger out, he kept yelling:

“Ready? Push!! GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO!

My wife, in obvious drug-free pain…just looked at me.

Dr. Bangalore just kept-a-goin’:


I felt like I was at some weird combination of a Computer Technical Support office in India and a Bangladesh soccer match.

Minutes later, Cam was born.


Nine pounds.

No drugs for my wife.

A strange doctor delivered him.

And me still with NO F*CKING COFFEE. REALLY?!?!


Welcome to the world, little buddy.

And thanks for making it.

I’m proud to be your dad.

Happy Birthday, Cam.


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