Thirty-one years ago tonight, I went into labor. It was two weeks before my due date, which was exactly how early my first son had come. But this time I was carrying twins. Since I was warned that twins often came really early, I had been expecting them for weeks.

So this evening -- I remember it was at 8-ish on a Friday -- I felt the first tell-tale cramps. And suddenly, much as I wanted this huge weight and girth gone from my body, I didn't want the babies born just then. It was December 13, the anniversary of my mother's death. I was eight when she died, and the day has always been a poignant one for me.

So I willed off the twins' birth, labor and all, until the next morning.

Afterward, it occurred to me that their being born on the date she died would have been beautiful in its way. But I'm glad things worked out as they did. I like being able to remember my mother on December 13 and celebrate my twin sons on December 14. And celebrate I do. They weighed in at nearly 13 pounds combined. That's lots of baby.

They're lots of man now, each of them. How else could they be, and still encompass my mother's spirit?