Last week, I flew from New York City to Denver to visit my family. I was traveling solo with my twin boys who had just turned 3 the day before. We showed up at the airport at 7am for an 8:45 flight. All was looking well until about 8:50 when, after I had just comfortably set the boys up with their mini DVD players and lollipops, we had to disembark due to a tire problem. About 15 minutes later, we got back on. Oh, wait a minute folks, get back off again. After an hour waiting at the gate, we were told it would be just another hour. But that hour turned into two, then four, then six, then TWELVE. Yes, 12 hours at LaGuardia airport (which, if you’re familiar with NYC airports, you know is like a Colombian jail with an Au Bon Pain). And no, my boys didn’t sleep a wink all day. What did they do? They screamed, they cried, they hit each other, they mopped the disgusting airport floors with their curly hair, and in a serious moment of weakness on my part, they developed a gum-chewing habit. We didn’t take off until 8:00 that evening.

Through it all, though, I remained pretty calm. I was proud of myself for not shedding a single tear, especially since I’m usually a shameless weeper.

I congratulate myself, too. I'm carrying nearly 12 pounds of baby inside me! All those hamburgers paid off.

"Why do they always call each other 'papi'?" she asked.

"We don't do that," she said, and by "we," I knew she meant us white people, as if I would automatically agree because of the color of my skin.