I’m in Alexandria, VA, sitting in my hotel room, mulling things over. Today Stephanie (I’m sorry if I have not mentioned Steph earlier in this blog, but after all, this is not a novel, with well-developed characters and skillful plot development, this is just a sporadic diary that is mostly about worms, and Stephanie’s worms all died, which is another story, but anyway, Stephanie and Jim are also the parents of our godchild Max)…so today Stephanie gave birth to our twin (oh, I guess they’re our godchildren, although now that I think about it, have they really asked us? I can’t remember…huh…) well, regardless, she had twin daughters today.
Girls. Wow. Two of them.
Scott was headed down to San Jose anyway to help Jim get the nursery ready, so when he got the call at around 7:30 this morning, he just left early and picked up Max from daycare while Jim was standing heroically by in the delivery room, doing whatever it is fathers do in that situation. The girls came quickly—they were in the world by 11 a.m. or so.
Phoebe and Zoe. Or is it Zoey? How will she spell it? I’ll ask her when I meet her.
So Scott is there, visiting the little girls in the hospital and tucking Max into bed and all kinds of other godparent-like things, and I am wandering around Alexandria in search of a dry Martini. Actually, now that I think about it, this is about par for us.
Girls, this is how your aunt Amy spent the first night of your life: sitting in an Italian restaurant near the Potomac river, sipping a Martini with three strange little black olives in it, eating a vegetarian antipasto platter, and watching this amazing thing that was happening in front of me.
Eight girls, all about 10 years of age, who had just finished some kind of choir concert, were ordering dinner. I know they were in a choir because they all wore black pants or skirts and white shirts, and they broke into well-orchestrated song from time to time. Their parents were seated in the next room; they got to sit by themselves and talk and laugh and be girls out on their own for a little while.
I remember that age so well. Annette, if you’re reading this—you and I met at about that age. How long ago was that? Over twenty years ago. Damn. Somebody bring me another Martini.
Anyway, I watched these girls and I thought about what a perfect, brilliant age that was to be. Girls that age are smart and fearless and beautiful. They are passionate about the world they live in. They are passionate about each other. I sat watching those girls and I thought, at least two of you will still be friends when you’re my age. Someday one of you will be sitting in a bar in a strange town, drinking an ice cold cocktail, while another one of you is in the hospital, your twin daughters under heat lamps, wondering when the next Demerol shot will arrive. Cheers, Steph.
Worm composting workshop at Green Springs Garden Park tomorrow (oh, it’s after midnight…make that today), and then I’ll be exploring our nation’s capitol.