At 4 a.m., I was only slightly awakened by Mrs. Fetched.
As anyone still 90% asleep would, I answered, "Unh."
"Farf, get up and help me clean up the bathroom floor."
The comment from left-field woke me up some more. "Whaaaat?"
Staggering into the bathroom, I saw a bunch of clear, jelly-like something on the floor. Someone's water had broke, obviously. I don't remember if I actually helped or just stood there gaping while Mrs. Fetched did the work - it wouldn't be the last time.
A couple hours later, we were at the hospital. Some time during the morning, Daughter Dearest arrived, nearly a month ahead of schedule (the result of a car wreck two weeks previous). She was physically OK with the early birth; not so much mentally. She would wriggle the blanket over her head (amazing to watch) and scream bloody murder when I had to change her diaper. To this day, I've never figured out how a five-pound baby can produce eight pounds of crap in one sitting.
But happy #17, Daughter Dearest! Standing taller than her mom, and still as feisty as on the day of her arrival.