This wild weekend started out with the biggest fight Derek and I have ever had and ended with me holding Sam and Dawn's new babies, Ada and Alice.
The Fight was pretty standard-issue mid-twenties fear of commitment stuff, but it sure did feel (as these things do) totally personal and unique and tragic especially when I thought the only possible way it could end was, well, to end it. However, just to show that life can still surprise, all the right things were said, and apologies were made over smooches in the tree-lined residential labyrinthine brick sidewalks of Harvard Square.
PS. I am apparently a dude when it comes to these things. For the two days when I thought we were breaking up, not a scoop of ice cream was eaten and nary a chick-flick viewed. All I wanted to do was lift weights, get drunk, and play the guitar.
The Babies are all different kinds of incredible. Teeny tiny. I've never held a newborn before, but I think Aunt Jade handled 8-pound Alice (who looks like Yoda) and 5-pound Ada (who looks like Gollum) impressively. Neither of them screamed at all when I held them, just kind of smooshed their faces all around and tried to eat their own fists. Derek and Sam and I all smoked the cigars I brought and talked about adulthood and fatherhood and green cards and all that crazy-serious stuff suddenly passed to us somewhat more like a marathon baton than a torch in terms of urgency and adrenaline and the vague feeling that somewhere up in the stands, thousands must me watching and scoring our performance.