Likewise there were different kinds of roasts—light, dark, French, Italian, and Extra Dark French, which sounded vaguely racist.
I went with medium Italian, because that’s basically what I am.
Then I had to choose the “body” of the coffee, which evidently meant “the weight of the coffee on your tongue.”
Everywhere you look, body issues.
Again I chose the light-to-medium bodied, ground it at the store, brought it home, perked it, and it sucked. I persevered for another week, but I couldn’t do it. I decided to throw out the baby with the coffee water and went back further to my roots to buy a little Italian Bialetti espresso maker, perked on the stovetop. But that meant I had to go back to the grocery store and start all over again, since the new coffeemaker required the moka grind, which is not even a word.
I brought the coffee home, perked it, and took a sip.
It sucked, too.
Or maybe I suck at flexibility.
So now I don’t know what to do.
I’m taking any and all suggestions.
And I have a novel to finish.
Tell me how to make a great cup of coffee.
The future of literature depends upon it.
Also my job.
I’ll split the Powerball with you.
We’re Having a Baby!
Francesca
I was hunched over my laptop, reading an article about which baby stroller is best for city dwellers, when my mom peered over my shoulder.
“Do you have something to tell me?”
We’re having a baby!
Well, my friend group is.
I’ve been part of a stable group of six, dear girlfriends since we were in the sixth grade, and now the first of us is pregnant. We’ve moved through many steps of life in stride, but a baby is a new frontier.
I am beyond excited.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, my brain was too busy thinking of baby names.
Don’t worry, I would never be so presumptuous as to suggest any.
(But in case she’s reading this: if you’re curious, I have a list, and it’s totally okay if you hate them, but I’m just gonna email…)
In addition to researching strollers, I’ve scoured Sephora reviews of the best stretch-mark cream and scouted the coolest maternity clothes websites. I’ve pre-selected my friend’s birthday, Christmas, and Groundhog Day presents.
And I haven’t even gotten started on gifts for the baby.
Actually, I take that back—I did preorder a board book entitled Feminist Baby, because I’m staking my claim as that aunt early.
Thanks to my web search history, every online advertisement thinks I’m pregnant.
If I see one more pop-up for breast pumps …
Last week, the New York contingent of our girl gang got dinner with Mama for the first time since she emailed us all the happy news.
The moment she slipped off her coat and revealed the tiniest baby bump, I girl-squealed.
And I never girl-squeal.
I found myself making sure she sat out of the way of the passing busboys, wanting to pull the chair out for her, then wanting the waiter to bring water faster, and bread, lots of bread! I wanted to order everything on the menu and watch her eat it.
Even as her friend, seeing her triggered an animal urge to nurture and protect her.
Our pride is having its first cub, and we lionesses need to circle the den.
When the waiter brought the wine list, we waved him off. It went without saying that we were abstaining in solidarity.
We made about two minutes of small chat before I caved and said, “SO, what is it like?” and we unleashed a torrent of questions.
Pregnancy is simultaneously the most universal female experience and the most unfathomable one. You can’t possibly imagine what it’s really like until you experience it.
Or, second best, until you see it up close.
And until this moment, I’ve only gotten as close as a sonogram photo on Facebook.
I’m an only child, and in my small extended family, I have only one cousin—and he’s older. On both sides, the Scottolines and Serritellas are bad at reproduction.
No one can stay married long enough.
I babysat the neighbor’s kids as a teenager, but actual infants were above my pay grade.
I’ve cooed over babies but never held one.
Pip doesn’t count.
When I’ve had an acquaintance or distant relative announce a pregnancy, I congratulate them, but I don’t feel comfortable asking any questions. I never know what is and isn’t polite to ask, it seems too personal.
But nothing is too personal between friends of twenty years. So I had a million questions at this dinner.
How do you feel? Are you nauseous? Are you starving?
Are your boobs awesome now? Oh no, they hurt?!?
When does it kick?
Does this mean we can order dessert?
She laughed and patiently answered our questions and filled us in on all the things that she did and didn’t expect. She told us the best news ever:
It’s a girl!
I tried not to immediately burst into tears. I nearly succeeded.
It was at once surreal and fitting that I was again leaning over a table with these girlfriends to learn about this most momentous experience of womanhood, just like we had when we were sitting around the lunch table in middle school, comparing notes on the most trivial firsts of womanhood.
These are the girls with whom I puzzled out puberty. Together, we figured out which razors wouldn’t nick your knees, even with a shaky hand, which maxi pads felt least like diapers, which tampons were the least scary. They reassured me that I was not the only girl on earth to have slightly unequal-sized breasts.
Whoever did anything first had to report back to the troops. We compared notes on what to do with your tongue when you kiss. When the first of us saw a guy naked, lunch break became a Grey’s Anatomy lesson, complete with crude diagrams drawn on the back of a napkin.
And it wasn’t just boy stuff, we conferred on SAT prep, college essays; anything big and daunting was tackled as a team.
After college, we no longer hit life milestones in lockstep with one another. That can be a source of jealousy or angst in some friendships, but only if you reduce major life events like marriage or a child to merit badges of womanhood.
I have truly never felt competitive with these friends, but I think that’s because we always helped each other.
Childbearing is more complicated than shaving your legs. It will probably take all six of us to get a comprehensive sense of this remarkable, insane, beautiful female experience.
Friendship is like a longitudinal study of how to be human. We’re here to be each other’s test subjects, and to use our findings to tip the scales toward happiness.
Not that Mama is our unlucky guinea pig—it evens out. Yes, she’s running the diaper gauntlet first. But she has all of us unencumbered single ladies around to support her. Her baby girl will be the object of adoration of five happy aunties and last-minute babysitters.
Those of us who have children later won’t need as much help, since we’ll have cribbed notes for years. Plus, we’ll get the mother lode of hand-me-down baby clothes.