Once you get past the grossness of your parents doing it, the story of your own conception and birth can be pretty interesting. At least it was to me. What follows is the story of my beginning, with most of the details from my mother.
In December 1975, my mother and father were in Toronto for Christmas with family friends Linda and Harry. They were staying at the Harbour Castle Hilton, right on the shore of Lake Ontario. One evening, the magic happened.
That hotel still exists today as the Westin Harbour Castle. I’ve thought about making a pilgrimage there, but that might be a bit creepy for both me and the hotel staff.
After returning from Toronto, my mom and dad took a January cruise to Jamaica with some family friends. On the ship, my Mom noticed that she was burning easily, but she attributed that to the strong Jamaican sun. She also felt a bit nauseous, but assumed it was just seasickness from the rocking cruise ship.
Back home, my mom washed a pair of expensive French slacks she’d just bought and found she couldn’t zip them up. Thinking she’d shrunk them in the wash, she was angry at herself for trying to save $2 by skipping the dry cleaners.
In February, my Mom started having some unusual symptoms and felt very tired. My Dad was down in Florida making funeral arrangements for his grandfather who had just passed away, so my Mom drove herself to see her doctor. Dr. Kapusta broke the news. “You are eight weeks.”
“Eight weeks what?”
The pregnancy was a surprise, as my Mom was quite content with the three children she already had and wasn’t planning on having any more. As if the surprise wasn’t enough, there were complications, and no one knew if my mom or the baby would be OK.
A few days later, right after my great-grandfather Willy’s funeral, my mom’s symptoms vanished, and she felt normal again. The rest of the pregnancy was perfectly normal. Perhaps this is why I was almost named William.
Early on the morning of Wednesday, September 22, 1976, my mom went into labor. My dad needed to stay home to send the other kids off to school, so family friend Harry took her to Montreal’s Jewish General Hospital. An hour later, my Dad made it to the hospital and headed to the maternity ward.
“Excuse me, sir, where you going?” one of the nurses asked.
“My wife is in labor,” my dad replied.
“Sir, there’s only one lady in labor right now, and she already has father in there.”
“I don’t care if that’s the father—I’m the husband. That’s my wife, and I’m going in!” my Dad proclaimed without missing a beat.
At 2:05 PM, I came out. 7 lbs. 1 oz. and perfectly healthy.
Uncle Irving was the first to arrive at the hospital.
“Couldn’t keep your legs closed for one more day?” he joked—his birthday was the next day.
Here’s the Montreal Gazette on the day after my birth. You can see my birth announcement on page 36.
According to my mom, I was an exceptionally cute and well-behaved baby. My three older siblings were thrilled to have a new baby brother, taking turns showing me their rooms and napping with me. Life was good for baby Jeff. Then I grew a goatee and started making websites.
Am I the only one curious about how they got here?
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