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The HospitalDaddy gets a guilt trip.

By Michael LewisUpdated Friday, April 6, 2007, at 2:46 PM ET

This article is part of an ongoing series by Michael Lewis about the birth of his third child. Click here to read the other entries in the series. Michael Lewis first began his "Dad Again" column after the birth of his second daughter, Dixie, in 2002. Click here to read about that delivery.

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"Can I listen to his breathing?" he asks. He's not even a doctor. He's a tourist.

"No!" I boom, Shrek-like. I haven't slept in two days and I'm in no mood. Still, it comes out a more menacing sound than I intended. The poor kid actually trots out the door. Then I look down at Walker and, unless I'm mistaken, he's laughing. He's got tubes coming out of every orifice, and he's having a ball. We're just two guys in a foxhole, defending ourselves against repeated, ceaseless assaults from the hospital staff.

"How you doin', buddy?" I say.

Getting better"Coo!" he says, and smiles. It's a big sloppy grin. It's then that the doctor arrives, with good news. She points to the black box over his head—his number flashes between 94 and 96—and says, "He's the strongest on the floor." My first thought: There are 24 other kids with the same thing and they're all more likely to die than he is, and … since no one ever heard of 25 kids dying in a children's hospital … he's not going to die. My second thought: He's winning the RSV tourney! I look down at him, proudly. He smiles again. I'm hooked.