I'm So Happy for You (23 page)

“It’s my pleasure,” said Wendy, for whom the acknowledgment felt like small but real consolation for not having a bump of
her own.

In time, the gaggle migrated to the living room, where they organized themselves in a circle with Daphne at the head. “Your
place is so cute,” Courtney Kleesak said to Wendy, her eyes combing the apartment. “I swear my grandmother had that exact
kitchen table—with the Formica and everything—in her nursing home.” Back in college, Courtney had been the secretary of what
Wendy thought of as the “officious brunettes” sorority. Following the birth of her son, Miles, a beady-eyed six-month-old
who sat squirming in her lap, she’d reduced her job at the Department of Health, where she monitored mosquito spraying, to
just three days a week. “Thanks,” said Wendy.

“And I guess you don’t have any problem getting onto the BQE.” Courtney smiled smarmily.

“I guess not.” Wendy smiled back.

“Daphne, you seriously make me sick,” began Jenn Gilmore, a petite blonde with a barely there upper lip. “You’ve gained, like,
no weight.” To Wendy’s recollection, Jenn had been in a bad mood since freshman orientation week. (Wendy recalled endless
complaints on the subjects of her chemistry finals and her menstrual cramps.) Now visibly pregnant with her second—a two-year-old
girl with short bangs and a sulky expression stood clutching her leg—Jenn reportedly planned to take time off from her job
as a child psychologist at a private elementary school in Brooklyn Heights.

“That’s so not true,” Daphne protested. “I’m a total whale! I swear my doctor put me on a diet.”

“Oh, please—”

“Please, yourself. Look at you!”

“I was just so relieved to finally be pregnant that I didn’t care how fat and ugly I got,” offered Gretchen, who wasn’t remotely
fat, either. “As you can probably tell.” Just then, Lola began to bawl. Or was it Liam? Though Gretchen’s twins were now almost
ten months old, this was the first time Wendy had seen them—and she couldn’t tell them apart. She also couldn’t believe how
cute they were. Bald and rotund, they both looked like miniature versions of Winston Churchill; apparently, Dorothea was feeding
them well. “Shit! What do I do?” Gretchen cried. With panicked glances at her neighbors, as she lifted her squalling infant
into her arms.

“Sorry,” said Courtney, turning to Gretchen with a pained expression, “but would you mind watching your language? I just don’t
want Miles exposed—”

“Sorry—I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you think she’s hungry?” asked Gretchen. “Ohmygod, I think I forgot formula!”

“This is the longest Gretch has ever been left alone with the twins since they were born,” Sara explained to the group.

“Thanks, Sar,” said Gretchen. “Let’s see how you do with a newborn, especially as a single mother.”

“Nice—right?” said Sara.

“Please, you’re going to be great!” said Pamela, slapping at the air. “To be honest, there’s not much to do in the beginning.
It’s mostly just a lot of sitting around and feeling incredibly blessed.”

Wendy thought she saw Gretchen roll her eyes.

A bottle was soon conjured for Lola, who fell silent as she sucked. As if to demonstrate her disapproval (of plastics), Courtney
took the opportunity to unhook her bra, revealing an elephantine pink breast, which she proffered in Miles’s face. Only, Miles
kept turning away at the sight of it. “What’s the matter, Bunny Wabby?” she asked in a saccharine voice. “Mommy’s got lots
of nice booby milk for you!” But still, he refused. Her voice quickly assumed a venomous edge. “Sweetie, why won’t you EAT?!!!!”
Finally, Miles took her nipple in his mouth and began to nurse halfheartedly. A look of beatification came over Courtney’s
face.

Just then, Lucas Rose, seemingly (and blessedly) unconscious in his car seat until moments before, began to howl. As Pamela
lifted him into her arms, Wendy plotted her escape. “So, who wants something cold to drink?” she asked. “I have wine, beer,
juice, water, homemade sangria.…”

Everyone, it seemed, wanted water. (Everyone was either pregnant or nursing or boring.) And why did no one else seem bothered
by the pitch of Lucas’s wailing? While Lucas carried on, Wendy’s shower guests continued to chat. “My husband is, like, the
king of swaddling,” they said. And “My lactation consultant wants me to pump for four minutes after every feeding.” And “How
long does she go between feedings?” And “When are you due again?” And “How often does he spit up?” And “Well, I know this
woman who was in labor for four days and then her spleen ruptured.” And “That’s so amazing you were able to run a marathon
three months after giving birth!”

And “The problem with the Bugaboos is that they’re really hard to fold up.” And “The Pregos have that extra storage compartment
under the seat.” And “The McLarens are really light—they’re great if you take the subway.” And “I honestly don’t understand
how the poop gets on her back.” And “Do you know how the schools are around there?” And “They make these special cups for
inverted nipples.” And “Have you tried Mylicon for gas?” And “I hear they have great nursing bras at Boing Boing.” And “They
sell pump accessories there, too.”

And “They say it should be the consistency of pea soup.” And “If you don’t go fifteen minutes on each breast, he won’t get
the hind-milk.” And “She completely flipped out after the birth. I mean, it was a total Brooke Shields situation.” And “I’ve
heard iffy things about that Montessori.” And “Lead paint is no joke. Seriously. You should really get a professional cleaning
after the reno is done. I know this girl who got lead poisoning. Finn used to play with her. She was always punching him in
the face.”

And “Wait—did you guys hear about Molly Wengert??? You know she’s pregnant with twins, right? Well, apparently, the doctor
threatened to hospitalize her and put her on a feeding tube if she didn’t start eating. One of the fetuses is totally underweight
and at risk for brain damage, and she’s being a total anorexic freak about the whole thing and refusing to eat.…”

As Wendy went about filling her guests’ drink orders, she recalled a time when all anyone talked about was getting into college,
then getting hired, then getting married, now making babies—always without any recognition that anything of significance had
happened before, or would ever happen again. (
What about illness, death, and divorce?
she thought hopefully.)

Wendy also thought back to fifth grade. As unathletic as she was overdeveloped, she’d always been picked last for kickball.
She’d always been the last one left standing against the wall, wishing she could disappear into the gym lockers. She didn’t
feel so different now. After handing out two final seltzers, she sat down on the arm of the sofa.

“Believe me, I never meant to be pregnant while we were renovating,” Daphne was telling the assembled guests. “I mean, we’d
only been engaged for, like, two weeks when I found out. Poor Jonathan.” She laughed.

“At least you were engaged,” Sara said bitterly.

“You guys are so getting married before the baby is born!” declared Daphne.

“Yeah, sure,” said Sara.

“Anyway, back to what I was saying,” Daphne went on. “If any of you are thinking of getting pregnant again, or even for the
first time”—her eyes latched uninvited onto Wendy’s—“I’m now totally convinced it’s all about sleeping as much as you can—obviously,
after you’ve done it!” She laughed. “But seriously? I swear I slept ten hours the night I conceived. I mean, it makes sense
if you think about it. If you’re lying down, the sperm don’t spend the trip fighting gravity. Right?” Her nose wrinkled, she
scanned the crowd for affirmation. “Or is that just completely retarded?”

“I can’t remember the last time I got eight hours of sleep,” moaned Jenn Gilmore, turning to her daughter, who was in the
process of unfastening her sandal strap. “Thanks to this little tyrant, who makes my life a living hell. Speaking of which,
would you PLEASE, for the hundredth time, STOP THAT?” She slapped the girl’s hand away. The girl began to cry.

Lucas was still whimpering.

Just then, Miles abruptly withdrew from his mother’s breast and, his face a fiery shade of red, joined the chorus of discontent.
“What’s the matter with my perfect little angel boy?!” said Courtney, her lips puckered like a fish’s. She answered her own
question while holding his ass to her nose. “Did you do another poopie poop? You are such a stinky boy today!” She turned
to Wendy with an ingratiating smile. “Sorry—do you mind if I change him in your bedroom?” She paused. “I assume you have a
bedroom somewhere in here!”

“No, I sleep on the kitchen floor,” said Wendy.

Courtney looked horrified.

“It was a joke. The bedroom is at the end of the hall.”

“Oh.” Courtney’s lips formed a perfect O.

Wendy imagined fitting a rubber stopper into the rictus.

“Anyway, I should really get started on this pile,” Daphne announced, another twenty minutes into the party. “I can’t believe
how much stuff you guys got me. It’s insane!” The first thing she unwrapped was a pale yellow snowsuit with a matching pom-pom
hat. (Daphne had decided to let the sex of the baby be a surprise.) “Oooooooooooohhh,” she cried in an avian-like decrescendo.
“Alyssa, this is
too
cute.”

“I know next winter seems far off,” said Daphne’s cousin, if that was who she was. “But I swear, the first six months fly
by. And you’re going to need something to keep babe-ala warm.”

Next up was a silver spoon, followed by a Gymini activity blanket, a camouflage-print diaper bag, a magic swaddling blanket,
a teddy bear, a Danish modern rattle, a “baby plush toy” in the shape of a hippo, and a pair of soft leather booties with
contrasting dinosaur cutouts on the toes. A fresh round of “oooooohs” accompanied each item’s unfurling. After Daphne unwrapped
a second activity blanket, Wendy heard herself blurting out, “So, did you all hear about that American guy in Baghdad who
was decapitated yesterday?”

A muffled chorus of “I knows” and “It’s awfuls” rose and fell around her. Even Lucas Rose seemed to take a break from his
incessant mewling.

It was Pamela who broke the hush. “It really is terrible over there,” she said, shaking her head. “Worse, even, than when
I was over there last year.” (Reluctant to abandon her production team, Pamela, though six months pregnant and suffering from
preeclampsia, had managed to sneak in a quick trip to Baghdad before giving birth to the Unhappiest Baby on the Block.)

Only Daphne looked unfazed. Daphne had never had a problem blocking out the rest of the world, Wendy thought. “Wen—these cookies
are amazing,” she said, her mouth full.

“Oh, thanks,” said Wendy, gratified to think that Daphne had noticed the effort she’d gone to. “Believe it or not, I got the
recipe off the back of the chocolate chip bag.”

“Oh, my god, you are so
already
in training for parents’ bake sales at PS Three twenty-one!!” Daphne shrieked back at her.

Wendy felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. It was the word
training
that hurt the most. It was too close to what she imagined to be the truth. Which was that she could only practice because
the real thing remained out of reach. She folded an arm over her ribcage and angled her shoulders around her breasts. “I just
like making cookies.” She shrugged. She tried to smile, too, but her jaw muscles wouldn’t budge. “So, who needs a refill?”
she asked, standing up. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I do,” she muttered to herself. “Badly.” By then, she was already
halfway to the kitchen.

As Wendy banged a bag of ice against the side of the sink, she tried to determine if her upset was of her own making. No,
she decided. It had been thoughtless of Daphne, first to brag about the ease with which she’d conceived, and second to tease
Wendy about her cookie-making skills. Then again, maybe Daphne was unaware of the extent to which Wendy’s failure to become
pregnant had caused her to suffer, Wendy thought. (Maybe her pride on the matter had led her to downplay her frustration.)
Half-convinced of the latter—and newly determined to be a good friend—Wendy left the kitchen, a freshly poured glass of sangria
in hand.

“Wen, come sit down!” Daphne called to her as she reentered the living room. “You’re working too hard. It’s making me feel
bad!” She had a giant stuffed giraffe in her lap.

“Working? Try drinking,” Wendy said with a quick laugh, while reclaiming her seat on the arm of the sofa. “So, have you guys
decided on names yet?” she asked. Wendy had narrowed her own list of favorite baby names down to four: Maeve and Flora for
a girl, and Ezekiel (“Zeke”) and Otis for a boy. She wasn’t entirely satisfied with any of the contenders, however. None of
them possessed the right combination of familiarity and uniqueness. Maybe none of them ever would.

Daphne smiled coyly. “Well, we’ve been bouncing a few ideas around, but we’re keeping our favorites a secret.”

Another secret,
Wendy thought. How many more of them were there?

“Speaking of nothing, what the hell happened to Paige?” asked Sara.

“Unfortunately, she had another engagement,” said Daphne, frowning like a little girl whose ice-cream cone had just eaten
the pavement.

“Did you guys hear about Paige and Brad Glom?” said Courtney with a conspirational smile.

“No—what?” said Hannah Dingo.

“Well, you know how he finally married his girlfriend of, like, twenty years? Apparently, Paige made some totally offensive
toast at the rehearsal dinner about how she’d totally roped him into it. Also, Paige outed her as a former l-e-s-b-ia-n.”
She glanced at Miles, presumably to make sure he hadn’t learned to spell yet. “Apparently, Brad’s no longer speaking to Paige.”

“You’re kidding!” came the squeals and laughs. And “No way!” and “That’s hilarious!”

Wendy cringed. Had her wedding toast been discussed in similarly derogatory terms?

“Ohmygod, Audrey,” said Jenn Gilmore. “Do you remember that time in college you got a black eye playing Greek League softball
and Paige slipped you the number of a battered-women’s shelter—under the guise of being
concerned?
”