Some Gals Have All The Luck
Remember my neighbor—the one Biggy lusts after because she squeegees the driveway and rakes the yard? I realize this might be confusing, since he has a crush on Sam now, but I’m talking about the better half of the young couple down the street. We’ll call her K.
K just had her second baby, last week, while we were at the beach. Big deal, right? Ordinarily, I wouldn’t care about this news—certainly not enough to report on it. After all, I’ve had four of them, and few women these days can top that.
What’s interesting, however, is that K is special. God makes the rest of us suffer through pregnancy and its aftermath, but, for some reason, K was chosen to be spared. Pregnancy #2 was a repeat of the first: She was on the pill and never knew she was knocked up until five months after the fact.
No puking up Saltines, no throbbing rivers of blue veins in her breasts, no cravings for Kraft macaroni-n-cheese mixed with canned artichoke hearts, no Regan-like mood swings, no crying in the dressing room mirror at Motherhood—no clue someone had taken up residence in her body. Four months and a little glow later, the beautiful, perfectly-healthy infant pops out like toast (buttered, no less), and Mom is served breakfast in bed.
So I come back from my run last night, and Biggy and Lo are standing in Young Couple’s driveway with the proud papa. I stop, hoping to hear that K has hemorrhoids, but this is how the conversation goes:
Tania: So how’s everyone doing?
Proud Pop: Great. Perfect.
Tania: Getting any sleep?
Proud Pop: The baby sleeps through the night. And K’s already lost all the weight.
I give him the finger, turn up my iPod, and jog on up the hill.