At a backyard barbeque a month before I delivered my twin boys, the dads tossed around a Frisbee while the moms sat around a table predicting that my marriage was about to implode. “You guys will fight over the stupidest stuff,” one woman insisted. “You just wait!” I wasn’t buying it. After all, my husband, Paul, rubbed my swollen feet every night during my third trimester. He told me I “glowed,” and he folded the laundry. In three years of marriage, we’d never had a noteworthy argument.