I'm sorely tempted to post this in the political section along with an inflammatory comment or two, but I'm trying to cultivate good karma. Or maybe I'm just depressed and thirsty.
So. Sixty years ago today at four in the morning my own dear mother woke my father out of a dead slumber to tell him it was time to go to the hospital. Spurred by the completely untenable thought of Mom giving birth at home with only Dad to assist, the old sot hauled his pants and boots on, got Mom in one hand and her suitcase in the other and stuffed both in the car, then he high-balled it to the local hospital where the family sawbones was summoned by the staff in the emergency room. Along about five or so I showed up.
As it was related to me, Dad went home, got dressed and went in to work. He sent Mom a couple dozen roses, and the relatives descended en masse to point and coo and try to cuddle little Mad Jack who alternately remained comatose or loudly demanded to be fed.
I think the nurses slipped a little gin into my formula. Anyway, I wrote a bit here: Many Happy Returns for anyone who cares to read it.