I'm So Happy for You

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  “I know what you mean,” said Wendy, who, although she’d attended plenty of yoga classes in her lifetime, suspected that she didn’t, had no idea, might never.

  • • •

  (LATE JUNE)

  Adam had tried to discourage Wendy from throwing a baby shower for Daphne. “You’re just going to get all depressed and upset and tell me everyone has a baby or is pregnant but you,” he’d told her, his voice a mix of anger and exasperation.

  What he couldn’t understand was that it was the right thing to do—the kind of thing you did for your oldest friend who was seven and a half months pregnant with her first child, even if it meant showing off both your shabby apartment and your barren womb. Because not to do so would have felt like an admission of defeat. And because playing host was still preferable to having to attend someone else’s shower for Daphne as a mere guest.

  The buzzer began to ring at twenty to three. Sara arrived first, followed by Jenny Kenar, Audrey Lennon, Pamela, Gretchen, Jenn Gilmore, Courtney Kleesak, Hannah Dingo, and a woman Wendy didn’t recognize (Daphne’s cousin Alyssa?). All of them were accompanied by progeny under the age of four, most of them already born and squalling, a few in utero and still silent. The majority of the women harked back to Daphne’s college days. Prior to Daphne’s wedding, Wendy hadn’t seen some of them in fifteen years. In several cases (Courtney Kleesak and Jenny Gilmore, in particular), Wendy would have been happy to extend that number to thirty. But that afternoon she was committed to being a model hostess. “So great to see you!” she greeted her friends and enemies alike. And “Hello there, little guy!” And “You can put your presents in that pile in the living room.” And “You can leave your stroller in the hall, if you want—whatever’s easier for you.”

  Adam had gone to Shea Stadium to watch the Mets play the Phillies.

  Polly was spending the afternoon with a neighbor because Daphne had announced that she’d developed an early-midlife allergy to dogs.

  Assuming Paige wasn’t on her way—to Wendy’s surprise, there was no sign of her—Daphne was, of course, the last to arrive. She was dressed for the occasion in a red-and-white paisley-printed wrap dress, all the better to show off her perfectly compact bump. “Ohmygod, all my favorite people in one room!” she cried, in an almost plaintive tone, at the sight of her ten best friends fanned out across the foyer. “Thank you all so much for being here. And Wen, it was so sweet of you to throw me a party. I’m forever in your debt.” She embraced Wendy.

  “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 p
aint 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. Als
o, 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?”

  “God—don’t remind me,” said Audrey, rolling her eyes.

  There was more giggling.

  “Yeah, but, you know, Brad kind of screwed Paige over with the yoga girl,” Daphne interjected. It occurred suddenly to Wendy that Daphne never said a bad word about anybody. Could it be that she was the only loyal one among them? “I mean, it was pretty obvious Paige was in love with him all those years,” Daphne continued while unwrapping a deep-pile-velour receiving blanket. She rubbed it against her cheek. “Could this be any softer? Hannah, you are too sweet!”

  “Danny and I got the same one as a gift when Zola was born, and I swear she spent half the day rolling around on that thing,” said Hannah.

  Next up was a humongous silver box with cascading blue ribbons. “It’s just a little something,” said Courtney, who—was it possible?—was nursing Miles again.

  Daphne untied the package, opened the box, and lifted out a large wicker basket topped with confetti. Reaching into the fluff, she emerged moments later with a pair of miniature red-and-white-striped pants, which were attached to a rope cord in the manner of a clothesline with plain wooden clips. “How cute are these?” said Daphne. She began to pull the cord, but it extended farther than her arm allowed. So she stood up and began to walk backward toward the door, rope in hand. In the process, she revealed a matching red-and-white-striped sweatshirt. Daphne kept walking, and the tiny outfits kept coming, one after another after another, some decorated with stripes, others with lollipops and teddy bears and little lambs. There must have been a dozen of them. The gaggle gasped and ohmygodded. “Courtney, I can’t BELIEEEEEEEEEEVE you!!” Daphne squealed. “This is just BEYOND! I mean, this is, like, the most insane present EVER. And on top of the Diaper Genie I registered for? It’s too much.…”