Having a baby in UAE: Baby shower and sunsets

This was the scene atop Le Royal Meridian Hotel inside the Stratos Revolving Lounge in Abu Dhabi over the weekend.

As you can see from the photo, the clouds are back and the temperatures have started to cool. Yes, it is a splendid time of year to be in the capital.

And speaking of living in the UAE, Miranda and I were at our friends' baby shower ready to welcome the country's newest residents when I captured this photo. I suppose I should have been documenting the small sandwiches the ladies had during high tea or the many baby gifts the happy couple received.

But instead, I was drawn to this stunning sunset piercing through those rare Abu Dhabi clouds hovering just above the Corniche.

It was a co-ed baby shower, so we had two parties going on simultaneously. The ladies stayed in the restaurant, took in the views, sipped on tea and relaxed while the young mothers openly breastfeed their new babies. Always a refreshing sight.

Meanwhile, the lads retired downstairs to PJ O'Reillys Irish Pub, where we waited out the feminine festivities, huddled around the bar and tried to keep our alcohol intake at an appropriate level. The party started at 2pm. Day beers are always fun but too many can be destructive when you have a little one to care for (and a wife who has had too much fancy tea).

After an hour or two, the conversation at the upstairs party started to stall while the downstairs party conversation started to slur. Eventually, we combined forces again because someone had to finish off all those egg salad and cheese mini sandwiches that the women wouldn't touch.

And together, we all watched as the happy couple opened their baby gifts and the sun went down on another balmy winter day in the desert.

For any expecting parents in or around the UAE: If you have any direct questions about what it was like to give birth in Abu Dhabi, the different hospital options, doctors, the access to drugs, birth certificate shenanigans, etc. please send me an email (aarongray2337@gmail.com) and I will respond promptly. Trust me, we know what it's like to not get straight-forward answers from trained professionals here. All I can do is tell you exactly how our situation played out and offer my wholehearted advice. Cheers.

Gluttony in Abu Dhabi: Grand Central's burger-eating contest

In a world of excessive overindulgence, the consumption of 18 mini hamburgers in 10 minutes seemed like mere child's play.

So when RJ Mickelson saw a little piece of paper inside his Grand Central burger order that advertised an upcoming burger-eating contest in Abu Dhabi, the proverbial "all-you-can-eat" light illuminated in his mind and his heart melted like that little piece of processed cheese stuck to the interior of a burger takeout wrapper.

The offer of a Dh10,000 grand prize for the winner was also enticing. As RJ slowly consumed his lone burger that night, he stared intently at the contest advertisement and then started to dream of all the burgers he could order from Grand Central with an extra 10 grand in his pocket. 

"It's all about the Benjamins," RJ said when asked why he would participate in such an un-nerving display of gluttony on a public stage. 

When he was told that Benjamin Franklin (one of the United States' founding fathers who he had just eluded to) does not actually appear on the UAE dirham, RJ just stuffed another mini burger into his mouth and quickly changed the subject.

With two weeks to go before he big competition, RJ needed just three things: 

- a stringent training schedule of over-eating and timed overindulgence
- an outstanding coach, who would lead him to glory and utter prestige

- and lastly, a picture of the previous year's champion that he could tape to his mirror and stare at each morning as a motivational tool, like what Sylvester Stallone did with the Russian in Rocky IV

RJ is a professional colleague of mine, we share a trusted association on a personal level and we play squash twice a week together. I even dressed up like him for Halloween. No joke. I wore the costume to his house, while he threw a Halloween party.

It was safe to say that I know this man so naturally, I assumed the role of coach.

But with less than a week before the contest -- and despite my galvanizing suggestion of putting the champion's photo on his mirror ...  yes, that was totally my idea -- he vehemently denied to our friends that I was his competitive-eating coach and I was immediately downgraded to practice timer.

Before I knew it, his wife took over head coaching duties while we sat inside the break room at our office and I videotaped him while he devoured countless mini burgers. All of this under the watchful eye of the stopwatch on my cell phone.

"Every second matters," he said. Words spoken by a true champion.

For me, it was a very tough job. Imagine sitting through 5- and 10-minute increments with no one to talk to because the only other human being in the room was slowing killing himself by ingesting bread buns dipped in water and mashed-up ground beef. And he did this at a very alarming rate.

Oh, and the sounds? That dude gagged and gulped and fought off the vomit that was constantly creeping up his throat. And during the entire ordeal, I had to keep a cell phone video frame focused on all the carnage. It was horrible.

But after all the arduous practice and those back-breaking training sessions (I think we did it twice), RJ was ready to show the world what we already knew in our hearts: that he was a burger-eating champion.

When we arrived at the contest, you could tell we both were a little nervous.

Some of the finest eaters from Abu Dhabi were in our presence and you smell the gluttony in the air.

Like any true champion, RJ admitted to a few pre-match butterflies. Plus, he had not eaten anything during the previous few days as per my suggestion. Indeed, fasting was the only way to go. It was an over-eating tactic that I knew would serve RJ well in the latter parts of the contest.

Damn, I was such a good coach.

The mood turned sour quickly when RJ immediately got in an argument with the judge that was assigned to watch him. Something to do about how RJ had requested lowfat vegan meat for his burgers. The judge was not going to comply.

"We already cooked up the burgers -- you're going have to eat them like everyone else," said the judge, who was not amused at all by RJ's last-second request.

They shared a few fierce stares before I yelled something like: "RJ, save the intimidation methods we talked about for the actual competitors. Leave the judge alone."

I then slipped the judge Dh50 very discretely and he reciprocated with a sly wink.

Only the best coaches in the world can recognize when their athletes have already been out-classed and the only way to contend was by cheating. Good thing the judges did not do any drug testing. RJ did not know this but I had secretly injected each of training burgers he consumed with steroids.

Unfortunately, I could not buy off the kitchen staff.

I asked them "to put a little something nice" in the other competitors' burgers to give RJ an edge. They were very confused by my ploy and gave me sort of a blank stare when I asked again. Then, when I pulled out my camera, they knew what to do.

Based on their interesting hand signals, I could only assume there were a few gang members in the bunch so I didn't want to use force. It quickly became apparent to me that cheating was out of the equation and this would have to be a clean victory if RJ was going to stand tall among them all.

So the stage was set, RJ had his puke bucket ready, the crowd had gathered for this true test of athleticism and over-eating was about to begin.

RJ got off to a very fast start. But he was up against a tough group of veterans in this competition. As all of them had money signs dancing in their heads, it was that infamous and inevitable vomit that had to be held off. You know, that natural reaction your body produces when you have eaten entirely too much food in a very short window of time...

Well, that was the name of the game at Grand Central in Abu Dhabi that day.

I can tell you now that true champions emerged and immense glory was achieved. Blood, sweat and tears had gone into this contest and only the finest were still left standing when the final buzzer had sounded.

To find out who hoisted the trophy and took home an over-sized check for their unprecedented ability to overindulge, check out the YouTube video below.

Sorry that it cuts off rather abruptly. I later found out the man behind the lens started to lose his lunch because he saw the actual over-eaters vomit during the height of their gritty and supreme competition. Bon appetit!

Abu Dhabi police are OK in my book

While I was rocking my daughter to sleep around 6.23am this morning, I used my other hand to watch the latest video clip on my phone of police officers back in the States using fear and physical violence to make their point against not-so-innocent US citizens. It was pretty disturbing.

Maybe they were right? Maybe they took things way too far? I can't really say.

All I know is that I have been wronged by police officers more times than I'd like to admit. It started when I was a scared 10-year-old kid and a police officer, with not much on his plate that day, sternly lecturing and then intimidating me inside the foyer of my own home because I allegedly called a grown-up neighbor a curse word.

My relationship with these "peace" officers grew more strained in high school and then hit a crescendo of distrust while in college. As a grown man today, I now understand a little bit more about how the world works. I've been to the parade, as they say.

But because of past encounters with the police, I have found that, in many cases, they do more harm than good.



This is just my opinion and indeed, it is not the law of the land. So if I have offended any actual police officers or relatives and friends of police officers, then I'm sorry.

But fear not, Abu Dhabi's finest are doing the right things and slowly but surely, they are changing my opinion of the police force. It's not in America but hey, it's a start.

*   *   *

My wife and I had just finished a late breakfast with our sleepy daughter at Carluccio's on the Eastern Mangroves when we decided to parlay her lethargic state into a walk down the waterfront.

As we strolled past the Eastern Mangroves Hotel & Spa by Anantara and before we made our way toward the concrete gazebos with the scenic mangroves to our right, we noticed a police car idled in the parking lot. Two officers were inside the cruiser and because of my many previous experiences with lawmen, I knew not to make any sudden movements as we walked by.

"You never know with these guys," I said to my wife pretending to be some veteran of police abuse.

The temperature started to climb digits as we walked and then the breeze suddenly went MIA so we decided to turn around and head back before our babe woke up from her slumber.

During our return encounter with the police officers, my wife decided to give an innocent wave and then the officer who sat shotgun signaled us to stop. He did not really say anything, opened the back seat door of the cruiser and started to fumble around in the back for something.

Miranda and I immediately started to wonder how this would play out. Because of the heat, she had taken off one of her three shirts and her shoulders were exposed. "He's going to give you a scarf to cover up," we muttered in unison. But could it be worse? Is he going to write us a ticket?

This made perfect sense, I thought. Happy couple just walking with their baby on the waterfront and here's a cop with nothing better to do. Why not flex his authoritarian muscles?

To our surprise, he emerged from the backseat with a four-pack of cold orange juice boxes for us. He may have seen my shirt starting to soak with sweat so he decided to offer us a refreshment. He didn't say much. Just handed over the beverages and sort of nodded his head.

It was a very nice gesture and we thanked him. It was not like he had looked for anything in return. There were no cameras rolling. He just wanted to do something nice.

It did not matter that he was wearing a policeman's uniform and I was wearing a sweat-soaked T-shirt. We were all victims to the Middle East heat and together, we needed to hydrate.

And for that brief moment, through one kind act, my faith in the police was slightly restored.

Having a baby in UAE: #TheStoryOfHarper

hash·tag

ˈhaSHtaɡ/

noun (on social media sites such as Twitter) a word or phrase preceded by a hash or pound sign (#) and used to identify messages on a specific topic.


So you're telling me that I need to create a hashtag for my baby daughter? OK, I'll do it.

In this very weird world consumed by social media and the debilitating disorder of FoMO ("fear of missing out"), I felt the only responsible and humane thing to do was create a hashtag for my baby so friends and family could be aided while they scour the Internet for images and videos of baby Harper.

And so, on September 5, 2015, at precisely 7.23pm, which was approximately five and half hours after my daughter was born, the hashtag #TheStoryOfHarper entered the world wide web (a.k.a. www) and of course, the Internet has never been the same.

Realizing that your baby daughter needs a hashtag is the first step. Congratulations, you've already made it this far. The next very important task is determining what the actual hashtag will be. How will it represent your new baby? Will it go viral? How long before it's trending on Twitter (*fingers crossed)?

In our experience, these were some early front-runners:

#OurLittleAngel

#MyPoopyPrincess

#PrettyInPink

#TheCutestFreakingBabyInTheWholeEntireWorld

Surprisingly enough, all those hashtags and many more like them, were already nabbed by other social media-hungry and over-obsessive parents. What a bunch of jerks.

In the end, we settled on #TheStoryOfHarper. Because, basically, we thought it sounded cool. It appears the good people on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram agree.

For any expecting parents in or around the UAE: If you have any direct questions about what it was like to give birth in Abu Dhabi, the different hospital options, doctors, the access to drugs, birth certificate shenanigans, etc. please send me an email (aarongray2337@gmail.com) and I will respond promptly. Trust me, we know what it's like to not get straight-forward answers from trained professionals here. All I can do is tell you exactly how our situation played out and offer my wholehearted advice. Cheers.

Having a baby in UAE: Choose hospital wisely

When researching a potential venue to stage the birth of your first child, fathers usually have a solid list where several bullets need to be checked off before we even consider a certain hospital.

Fellas: This is some truth right here. For the ladies, please bear with me...

Cleanliness of the facility, experience and friendliness of the staff along with the proximity to your home are some things that usually factor pretty high on these hospital checklists. Miranda did a good job of keeping tabs on these oh-so-important details.

For me, I demanded unequivocal access to a television inside our hospital room so I could binge-watch Breaking Bad (my latest obsession). The nearest fast-food restaurant was also important to me because I knew there would be some long hours ahead (probably spent watching Walter White and his crazy crystal meth shenanigans). And Wifi was essential because two (2) fantasy football drafts were also on the agenda.

We gave Burjeel Hospital a gander and Miranda was not impressed at all. There was talk about hitting up the Corniche Hospital but word on the street was that is had recently been swallowed up whole by the locals and that our kind were not welcome around those parts (this was never verified).

When we pulled into the parking lot next to BrightPoint Royal Women's Hospital, I knew we had just stumbled upon a gold mine.

Yes, I know. That is a picture of a football pitch. You are very observant.

Al Jazira Stadium is considered to be the UAE's national stadium but before you get lost in its mystic, I have to divert your attention toward that tall tower on the left side of the photo. That is our hospital. Within its walls is where my child entered this world. And yes, I did request a room with a window. With a view. Of the pitch.

The good people at BrightPoint were happy to accommodate me and my request. When I told the nurses that I worked for the sports section at The National, they replied that they had the best seats in the house for home matches. I had to agree with them. We were on the ninth floor and that bird's-eye view was a pretty interesting perspective.

When we checked into our stadium/hotel/hospital room, Miranda needed help unloading her comfy-cozy clothes and supplies but I had no time for that. During my search for the nearest electrical socket -- I was just seconds away from launching a Breaking Bad marathon up in that joint -- I gave a quick gander out the window.

Al Jazira is a club team from the local UAE professional league but on that day, I noticed the stadium workers had climbed to the highest nose-bleed seats in the stadium to hang up FIFA flags.

Then it hit me: The UAE national team was going to host Malaysia in a 2018 World Cup qualifier the same night we were scheduled to have our baby. And I had a perfect seat for all the (football and baby) action.

Fast forward eight hours...

It was a frantic moment. My wife was in obvious pain, the machine that measured her labor contractions was making all types of loud noises and the worst part: There wasn't a single nurse to be found.

I was scrambling through the hospital hallways looking for help. A doctor, a nurse, a janitor -- anyone! My wife needed immediate assistance and it was on me to locate the trained professionals. As I started to sprint through the building, I became very desperate for help. I started to sweat. My nerves were getting the best of me. I was scared.

WHERE IS EVERYBODY? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON??

I burst into a door that I had not checked yet and discovered this...

Every nurse on the floor had gone AWOL and instead of attending to their nursing duties, they crowded into the "Baby Nursery Room" to watch as the UAE demolished the visitors 10-0.

It was the largest margin of victory for the Emirates in World Cup qualifying history. The Malaysia coach resigned due to complete embarrassment and this was the sport front page the next day:

OK, so long story short: my wife is a champion and we eventually had our beautiful daughter. I think it's completely obvious now that she will be a future footballer. Or if you're reading this while in America or Australia, I meant to say she will flourish in the brilliant sport of soccer.

And to confirm this fact, Miranda and I took baby Harper to her first professional football match when she was just three weeks old. She loved it so much she decided to take a snooze.

For any expecting parents in or around the UAE: If you have any direct questions about what it was like to give birth in Abu Dhabi, the different hospital options, doctors, the access to drugs, birth certificate shenanigans, etc. please send me an email (aarongray2337@gmail.com) and I will respond promptly. Trust me, we know what it's like to not get straight-forward answers from trained professionals here. All I can do is tell you exactly how our situation played out and offer my wholehearted advice. Cheers.

Having a baby in UAE: A letter to my daughter

Dearest Harper,

Looking back on my life, I really cannot remember the last time I cried.

Sure there have been a few times here and there: a sad funeral, a triumphant ending to a dramatic movie or when the New York Giants blow a six-point lead with less than two minutes to go. But all those examples registered slight emotional reactions, in the grand scheme of things.

When I was there to watch your global debut on September 5, 2015 and when I heard you crying before I could even see you, it changed me forever. In a very astonishing way.

You always hear about how men claim that the day their children were born was the best day of their lives. Rather cliche, I know. But for me, I can now relate.

Trust me, I will never forget that moment. For the rest of my days, there will always be an obvious reason for celebration on September 5th.

Because that is when my second life began. My life with Harper.

I never knew I could love something so much. I just never knew I had it in me. You have been alive for only two weeks but your impact on me has already been immeasurable.

But like I said before, when I heard you cry for the very first time, I immediately started to cry. Uncontrollably. Indeed, it was a very beautiful moment. So much so that -- according to my sources -- the other nurses in the room started to weep when they saw me get emotional.

It was proof that everything was now different and nothing would ever be the same. Ever. And because that was so obvious to me at that exact moment, I was very:

- excited
- happy
- overwhelmed
- optimistic
- proud

And when I experience all those emotions at one time -- trust me, it does not happen often -- my heart starts to swell and the waterworks come down. I'll admit it: only you and your amazing mother have that kind of effect on me.

So now that we have established your father will forever be completely wrapped around your finger, allow me to offer some concrete reassurance that will last for a lifetime. Harper, I will always be by your side. For good or ill, and even after my clock runs out, know this: your dad loves you.

And perhaps down the line, when you are old enough, you will read this. Then we can talk and reflect on that special day we shared together. After all, having children is a beautiful thing and it should be celebrated.

These are precious moments right now. I know this and sincerely appreciate it. But eventually you will begin to walk and begin to talk and then, you will grow up to become one of the most delightful people I have ever known.

I look forward to those days as I look forward to our life together. Now if you will, please excuse me while I wipe the tears off my keyboard.

With all my love,
Dad

For any expecting parents in or around the UAE: If you have any direct questions about what it was like to give birth in Abu Dhabi, the different hospital options, doctors, the access to drugs, birth certificate shenanigans, etc. please send me an email (aarongray2337@gmail.com) and I will respond promptly. Trust me, we know what it's like to not get straight-forward answers from trained professionals here. All I can do is tell you exactly how our situation played out and offer my wholehearted advice. Cheers.

Having a baby in UAE: Introducing Harper Gray

Miranda and I would like you to meet our daughter Harper Sharon Gray, who came into this world on Saturday, September 5th and brought nothing but love with her. She weighed in at 7 pounds, 6 ounces and measured at 52cm long. She and mommy are healthy, happy and absolutely adorable.

Obviously, she is our newest obsession. We could not be happier and we are looking forward to the new and exciting challenge of parenthood in a foreign country.

Our little angel was conceived in Goa, India and actually visited six different countries while in the womb. Kind of sets the bar for what we can only hope will be an enriching and adventurous life full of travel and amazing experiences.

I'm going to cut this short (well, shorter than most of my blog posts) and get back to staring at my daughter while she sleeps. Soaking up all the love is our new favourite pastime.

For any expecting parents in or around the UAE: If you have any direct questions about what it was like to give birth in Abu Dhabi, the different hospital options, doctors, the access to drugs, birth certificate shenanigans, etc. please send me an email (aarongray2337@gmail.com) and I will respond promptly. Trust me, we know what it's like to not get straight-forward answers from trained professionals here. All I can do is tell you exactly how our situation played out and offer my wholehearted advice. Cheers.

"Is Joe Flacco a ELITE Quaterback" sign in Abu Dhabi

The day started out like most do while living in the desert.

I woke up early, emerged from my bed, and then immediately did my customary 15 jumping jacks to ignite the morning. I followed that off by reciting the pledge of allegiance to an American flag duct-taped to the side of a book shelf, that contained my vast collection of encyclopedias, dictionaries and thesauruses.

My pregnant wife woke up because of the fracas and she was not happy.

Her head slightly emerged from a summit of preggo-hugging pillows but instead of yelling at me, she just gave me a sinister stare. Before she asked any questions, she noticed I was blowing the dust off my canary yellow Abu Dhabi T-shirt with the cool falcons on it, which quickly reminded her that today was going to be a special day.

I only wear that T-shirt for momentous occasions. Like when my wife and I got stuck in a Mumbai airport for 13 hours.

August is considered to be the hottest month of the year and I lived in one of the hottest cities on the planet so it was an ideal time for The Today Show and legendary weatherman Al Roker to visit our fair land.

Why did they come? I really have no idea. When I asked a few of the show's producers why, they just shook their heads while we all sweated our asses off. It was over 100 degrees outside and the Today Show wanted to film on the Corniche beach, which made perfect sense. I'm starting to sweat just thinking about it.

But then it hit me, like a sledgehammer in the middle of the night: the good people at NBC were trying to emulate the same conditions our gridiron heroes back home were battling through in the NFL pre-season.

It made perfect sense.

Just a few days ago, I got on the Internet and saw offensive linemen sitting in plastic garbage cans filled with ice. They did this to cool down their huge muscles. It was just like the motto for Dairy Queen: Hot eats and cool treats. If you can't take the heat, get yourself inside a garbage can full of ice.

* * *

My pregnant wife and I arrived about an hour early as I expected we would have to jostle for position among swarms of spectators and other well-wishers. To my shock and chagrin, not many people were there. To be exact, no one was there. A couple camera crew worker guys with mustaches ignored my inquiries and Roker was no where to be found.

There were actually more camels on the scene than people. Which, if you live in Abu Dhabi, is not uncommon. About a year ago, I had a pet camel but he ran away.

As the mid-day sun took flight and a few hard-core Americans started to trickle in, the temperature of the sand started to hit hellacious levels. I even heard a little boy ask his mother, "Why the hell are we here?" Seeing that I was about to become a father any day now, I took it upon myself to substitute in for the distressed and delirious parent.

"Buck up, mate. We're here to see Al Roker of course," I snapped at the young child in a motivating manner. "Aren't you interested in his take on the upcoming football season? Do you even care about America at all??"

The little boy started to cry. But he was so hot, not one noticed because his tears blended in with the sweat.

It was quite a scene. Blood, sweat and tears. These brave Americans were leaving it all out on the field. Just for the simple pleasure of rubbing elbows with one of our country's most prized possessions.

Just then -- from out of nowhere -- he emerged from his luxurious, air-conditioned tent. And then the crowd went wild.

That's my pregnant wife on the right, who jumped Roker's bones like he was a member of the Wu-Tang Clan. His white air-conditioned luxury suite, which was in the background, had very high security. You can't be too careful these days. The security guards were dressed in black (like the guy on the right) and they claimed to be ex-Commandos, who had flown in from Benghazi by helicopter the day before. Their job: protect Roker.

But they couldn't protect the words that would come out of his mouth.

You see, Roker possesses a master whit. A fine knowledge of all that is weather. In essence, if he can tell us the weather forecast, then he can actually predict the future. American weathermen have been revered for generations. Roker was no different.

Sure, their profession may appear easy to us simple folk. But their job description was solid: God among Men.

They have a cardinal skill that the rest of us wish to possess. What's the weather going to be like in Abu Dhabi? Cue Roker: "It's going to be hot. Very hot." Record that sound bite, play it again 365 times and then your work in the UAE is done for the year. You can pick up your annual tax-free paycheck on the way out and try not to get too much sand in your trousers.

As Roker started to shake hands with his sweaty fans on the beach, his security staff immediately deemed me as a threat. Before I could grab him for some one-on-one time and really press him with questions of significant merit, one of the men dressed in black shoved me aside and I fell into the scalding-hot sand.

"If you want to talk God -- ehh, I mean Roker -- then you have to have a sign, preferably one giving mad props to a US State, a relative living in that state, a sorority from a historical Black College or a political affiliation you have with Donald Trump. No exceptions," the security guard barked at me.

I puffed out my chest in an attempt to show the security guard my canary yellow Abu Dhabi T-shirt with the cool falcons on it. I assumed my attire was as good as any media credential but the security guard wouldn't budge. Unfortunately, the shirt was now drenched in blood, sweat and tears. The color from the T-shirt dye was starting to run so the security guard probably thought it was a fake.

My pregnant wife, still riding the high one only gets after schmoozing with a high-value celebrity, held me back as I threatened a physical confrontation with the Benghazi commando. She was right. This was no time for a showdown. She instructed me to use the pen, which was always mightier than the one-inch pocket knife I concealed in my jean shorts.

Time was of the essence and I knew I had to act fast because Roker was sweating like a melting piece of Easter bunny chocolate. It was just a matter of time before he would retire to the sauna inside his luxury suite. Any sauna would be a relief compared to the heat these brave Americans were suffering through on the beach. We lost a lot of fine soldiers that day but the question remained: With the NFL season about to commence, who are the quarterbacks on the fringe of being considered 'elite'?

I needed Roker to look into his crystal ball and reveal the answers to me and the rest of the world. So with the cameras rolling and an international audience watching, I scribbled the only name I could spell correctly on a sign and held it up for all to see.

SB Nation picked up the story and it even made the front page of the local newspaper in Abu Dhabi. It appeared the international media finally had a voice behind a question that had loomed all summer.

In the hot-as-hell desert, all of our athletic balls become deflated at some point. No one really cares about Brady.

About two minutes after Roker said, "Now let's see what the weather is like in your neck of the woods," he listened briefly to the little alien device stuck in his ear and then made a beeline for his air-conditioned tent.

No autographs, no kissing sweaty babies. Nothing. More importantly, no answers.

Just then, my wife let out a painful shriek and went into labor right there on the beach. I don't have a "PhD" at the end of my name or anything but I could only assume the drastic heat must have jump-started the contractions. Roker heard the commotion and rushed back to the scene. He was sweaty, he was tired but he was more than willing to deliver our baby. Like I said earlier: God among men.

After the birth, but before I instructed Roker to cut the umbilical cord, we shared a moment. We locked eyes and I could see a magical tear running down his face. He was happy. Overjoyed. Never did he think he would help deliver a baby on a beach in Abu Dhabi.

But before I could pop the big question, he gently placed his index finger on my lips in an attempt to silence me. "Shhhh," he said as drips of his sweat/tear mixture started to fall on my new-born child. "Just enjoy this..."

He then asked me what the baby's name would be. Overcome with joy myself, I couldn't quite voice the words but I leaned in close and whispered it into his sweaty ear. The name really isn't for public consumption but I'll give you a hint: It's started with a "J" and ended with a "Flacco".

Donating 15 inches of hair feels great

I don't have a sappy story to attach to this. There was no epiphany. No soap opera movie tears.

The facts were actually plain and simple.

I guess I started growing my hair out because I could. I am 35 years old and I am a journalist. My work environment and the people I work with -- well, the higher-ups -- appeared to be OK about a man with long hair (and a beard even!) so I let it grow and grow and grow.

Plus, both of my brothers (and they are going to hate me for this) are a little thin upstairs.

So I wanted to parlay the good genes my parents so graciously bestowed onto me. And after more than three years of sporting the long-haired beatnik look, I decided to go the donation route.

My amazing wife Miranda loved my long hair and had been dreading this day for a while.

She may have been the only one to shed any tears when I took a seat inside Walid Taykal's little salon studio at the Eastern Mangroves Hotel & Spa by Anantara in Abu Dhabi.

Have you ever seen 'Don't Mess With the Zohan'? Well, Walid could have played Adam Sandler's role perfectly. He is from Lebanon and is considered to be one of the best male stylists in the city.

Before Walid got to the cutting, he did all the other things stylists do: shampoo, conditioner, hair dryer, straighten, brush it, wrap the hair....

"You don't always have to straighten the hair," he told me. "But I do it for two reasons. The first is because when you donate it, it looks longer and it's nice when you send it in. And the second reason: it's more fun this way."

I had never straightened my hair before. It freaked me out. I looked like Pocahontas.

Then he worked his magic with those scissors. And with four quick snips, more than 15 inches were taken off and the transformation was complete. He refused to charge me for his services because it was a donation so a lot of credit goes to Walid and the Eastern Mangroves Hotel & Spa by Anantara in Abu Dhabi. Good people.

And when it came time to pick a non-profit organization to donate the hair to, I had to do some research. Hair donation is very important because a complete hair replacement costs approximately $1,800 for any man, woman or child. Plus, I did not want the recipient to have to pay for the donated hair.

Locks Of Love is probably the most popular organization for this but I found that they actually make children pay for the wigs. Not exactly non-profit if you ask me. According to this Huffington Post report, they had more than $6 million worth of donated hair that went unaccounted for two years ago. Sounds pretty shady to me.

I chose to donate my locks to Wigs for Kids. They have been around for over 30 years and have been providing hair replacement systems and support for children who have lost their hair due to chemotherapy, radiation therapy, Alopecia, Trichotillomania, burns and other medical issues at no cost to children or their families.

Pantene Beautiful Lengths and Children With Hair Loss are other non-profit organizations that will gladly accept donated hair and not charge their recipients.

Donation is a good thing.

I am lucky enough to grow long, luscious locks. Not everybody -- children included -- are afforded the same ability so if you can, donate! Trust me, it feels great.