I’ve always been told that every word of this story is true:

On an icy Monday morning early in January a bunch of years ago, my mother, lying in bed next to my father, felt her water break.  She turned and shook him awake.

“Michael,” she said.  “It’s time.  I’m in labor.”

If what you’re now expecting from my father is a celebratory response or even one of mild sleep-induced anxiety, you didn’t know the man.  

“It’s rush hour!  How could you go into labor during rush hour on a Monday?" he exclaimed as my mother calmly got out of what I’m guessing had become a very wet bed.