When my wife was pregnant with our first child, she went into labor late in the morning, maybe 11 am. After examining her, the medical staff estimated that she would give birth sometime within the next six to eight hours, or approximately 5 pm to 7 pm that evening. As a first-time expectant father, I did all the normal things, stayed by her side until or unless the maternity ward staff kicked me out temporarily while they did their thing, otherwise, I nervously paced the halls of the hospital.
  By 6 pm, the baby still wasn’t ready to make any debut, and the estimate was changed to between 8:30 pm and 10:30 pm. More pacing.
  At 10:45 pm, still nothing, and the new estimate was then changed to between “just wait and see” to “maybe sometime tomorrow”.
  On top of all my other compounded  anxiety, a panic-stricken thought shot through me: the date was the 12th of the month!  If the birth took place at any point after midnight, every time for the rest of our child’s life the 13th of the month fell on a Friday, it was tragic to have such an ominous omen!  I wigged out, frantic that if labor didn’t take place immediately, we would unleash on the world a demon, or we’d at least bring forth a child doomed to be beset by demons for all eternity. Quickly, I thought, I had to do something, anything to avert this calendaralrial* tragedy!
  At my next hand-squeezing session with my wife**, I spoke directly to her bloated belly, sending psychic and telepathic messages from Pa to womb, begging yon spawn to venture forth posthaste ’ere the witching hour be upon us. I besought all that was in play to align properly so as to ensure the right outcome.  The staff ushered me out again, and I found myself in the wasteland of the waiting room one more time, alone with my thoughts. 
  As seconds ticked by and then overflowed into minutes, and after that the minutes flowed into more minutes, the sweat of my brow increased to cascading waterfall*** levels.  Wrought with resignation, I slowly became numb to the grim reality that my firstborn, the crop of my sowing, might forever suffer the fate of being born on the 13th.  That’s about the time a nurse came to me and said that my wife was fully dilated, had been wheeled into the delivery room, and told me that if I didn’t hurry and get into my scrubs, I would miss the birth.  I scurried after her to the prep room and dutifully followed all the instructions for getting cleaned up and dressed. My excitement made me completely forget the triskaidekaphobia for the time being and attended the event that sealed my designation as father more concretely than had conception. The birth finally took place and mother and baby were doing fine.  So focused was I on all the other important aspects of the moment, such as the health of my wife and of our newborn, I didn’t notice that the time of birth was 11:11 pm.  I had worried for nothing.

  And guess what?  I’m not even superstitious.

*I know it’s not a real word.

**Why and how can tiny, petite, demure women, especially in the time of frailty and sapped strength at childbirth, give such bone-crushing grips on their husbands’ hands?

***Sidebar, did you know that the Spanish word for waterfall is cascada, as in cascade?  If it weren’t for being a different language entirely, cascading waterfall would be redundant. I’m jes’ sayin’.

 
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