Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Thre e

The day should end at a time for the mother to relax and reflect on the challenges of the day. Perhaps a hot bath. The use of alcohol is not considered an effective method of relaxation.

A Young Woman’s Guide to Raising Obedient Children

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid, (1943)

“ A nd then the mother kept screaming at me and refused to listen when I tried to point out how it was her son who started everything by knocking over Ben. We were winning the game, by the way,” I finish my tale, sniffing appreciatively at the cabernet sauvignon Morgan had poured for me when I walked in. Another few mouthfuls and I’ll need a refill.

I tuck my legs underneath me on the couch. We’ve taken over Morgan’s living room with plates of lemon tart and brownies that J.B. sent with me, as well as bottles of wine. Morgan’s condo used to be a showplace of art and décor, tidy enough to be fastidious. I used to be afraid to walk barefoot around the place without a fresh manicure.

A lot has changed since Carson came along. Board books and squishy blocks have taken the place of Morgan’s collection of Swarovski crystal butterfly figurines and Tiffany candlesticks, which have been relegated to gathering dust on the top shelf. There’s a dollhouse set up in the corner of the room and a veritable world of Little People sets beside it.

I shudder when I see a doll’s head tucked among the glass balls Morgan has arranged in a bowl on the table behind the couch and make a mental note to remove it for her later.

″Why do parents always use we when they talk about their kids’ sports?” Brit asks, crossing her long legs on the couch beside me. ” You don’t play soccer, so why do you say we won?”

I stare at Brit over the rim of my glass, swallowing the last few mouthfuls before holding my glass out for Morgan to refill.

Brit Spears–she dropped the ’ney in the 90s when the other Britney Spears became famous–and I have been friends since ninth-grade gym class where we discovered that it was easy to get out of playing basketball with a well-timed groan about our “monthly friend” while holding our stomach.

I’ve never been one for sports.

The two of us are now well into our twenty-seventh year of friendship, enduring her parents’ divorce, my mother, her stepmother, Brit’s three weddings and subsequent divorces, and my pregnancy and resulting three children. I still love her, but she can be a bitch sometimes.

The cry of the baby sends Morgan running out of the room .

″No more talk about kids tonight,” Brit says, waving a forkful of tart through the air. A pastry flake drops onto her blouse. “That’s all you seem to talk about these days. You need a life, Casey!”

I’ve lost track of how often Brit has told me that.

″I have a life, Brit. And my kids are a big part of it, which you’d understand if you had kids.” And pretended to be a better friend, I add silently.

″Do you blame me? After watching what you went through during your pregnancy? And you?” Brit turns to Morgan, who has returned with Carson.

″What did I do?” Morgan asked as she settles onto the couch. Without even asking, she hands me Carson.

″Hello, pretty baby,” I coo, full of smiles. Carson reaches out and grabs a fistful of my red hair. Morgan hands me a warm bottle and as I offer it to the baby, her blue eyes blink sleepily at me. I tuck her closer and Morgan covers her with a blanket.

There’s nothing better than holding a warm little body in your arms.

″This.” Brit waves her arms. The baby has distracted me and I have no idea what Brit is upset about. “The two of you are baby crazy. Still!”

Ah, yes. Her usual rant.

″For you, Morgan, to willingly go through all this without a husband…” Brit shakes her blond hair, still so full and lush from her blowout two days ago. “I really don’t understand.”

″How do you get your hair to stay so nice?” I ask as I idly stroke Carson’s foot. Baby feet are the cutest things ever. Her toes are tucked into the yellow onesie I gave her, passed down from Lucy. “There’s no way my hair would stay that way after a day, let alone two.”

″You have difficult hair,” Brit says with a smug smile.

I meet Morgan’s gaze and hide my smile. Attack averted. Every time we get together these days, Brit doesn’t hesitate in expressing her displeasure at the fact Morgan and I have kids. I think she’s jealous, and I’ve called her out on it more than once, but it didn’t go anywhere because Brit didn’t want to discuss it.

I’m used to her comments about the kids, seeing as how I’ve had almost seven years to get used to it. But Carson isn’t even a year old yet. My kids were three when Brit eventually stopped moaning and groaning about all the changes, but Carson seemed to have instigated the resurgence.

Especially since Morgan had Carson on her own.

Not that Morgan’s the first woman to have a baby out of wedlock, but I like to think I gave her the idea.

When I was thirty-five, I underwent a bit of a crisis, thinking that my biological clock was about to run out of batteries. This was thanks to a long out-of-print book my mother gave to me, called A Young Woman’s Guide to the Joy of Impending Motherhood. It came out in the 1940s.

A lot has changed since then, including the age women have babies.

After I read the book cover to cover, I freaked out and decided I needed to get pregnant immediately . Of course, it’s never that easy, especially when you discover your current boyfriend “cuddled” up with another woman at a wedding.

They weren’t exactly cuddling but I’ve changed the story to make it more PG since I’m the mother of young children now.

At the time, I was used to dating disasters and quickly bounced back. I was quick to come up with a few plans to make a baby happen; sperm donors, artificial insemination, and random guys on the subway. The best idea was having a baby with my ex-boyfriend, David, who by that time had realized he was gay .

That would have worked, had it not been for a drunken night with J.B.

I realize the doctor who wrote the book was a quack, but I still blame her for the stress I went through. I don’t credit her for me getting pregnant because that would have happened anyway.

Or maybe not, if I’d had a better history of dating. I like to think J.B. and I would have eventually gotten together, but who knows? It took long enough.

Morgan fell in love with my kids at the same time she fell out of love with her boyfriend at the time, Derek. But she stuck with him for two more years because she wanted that unconditional love that I had from the kids, and he seemed to be her best bet.

Knowing you’re the most important person in your child’s life is scary as hell sometimes, but really amazing all of the time.

Morgan and Derek finally broke up, and unbeknownst to me and Brit, Morgan began researching IVF. I finally caught wind to what she was doing about six months later. My suggestion was for her to contact my former boyfriend, David, who now lives with his boyfriend Marco in San Francisco. At one time David suggested he father my unborn children, but that’s part of the long story.

It took Morgan a couple years and many rounds of IVF to get pregnant. She’s thanked me countless times for supporting her through the ordeal.

Brit on the other hand…

To give Brit credit, she kept her mouth relatively shut until about six months after Carson was born. And then she resumed the complaining about how we’re too occupied with the kids, have no time for her, need to start focusing on ourselves, etc, etc.

In Brit’s defense, she’s gone through three weddings and three divorces since I got pregnant. I know part of her complaints stem from the fact that she’s jealous and lonely, and having a really rough time in the relationship department. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I also keep reminding myself that while Brit is self-absorbed and a bitch, she’s also my oldest friend, and I do love her.

″So,” Brit begins, setting her plate on the table beside her. “You know I’m getting married again.”

″I seem to recall hearing something about that.” Morgan leans over to check if Carson has fallen asleep, but I catch sight of her smirk. The only thing Brit loves more than attention is planning her wedding. I think three weddings and an engagement is proof that she likes the weddings more than the actual marriages.

″Yes, well, I’ve decided what I want to do for my stagette.”

I don’t bother hiding my groan. “Really, Brit? It’s the fourth time. I’m too tired to plan on anything more than a night out at Boston Pizza.”

″Please tell me you don’t go there,” Brit sniffs. “You say you love your kids but you take them there?”

″What’s wrong with Boston Pizza? The fish tacos are really good, and they have these cactus chips that I love.”

″I like the pizza,” Morgan chimes in. “It’s not as good as Cooper’s but nothing really is.”

I wonder how many arguments Morgan has prevented between Brit and me over the years. I might have known Brit longer, but Morgan was my university roommate, which is a different friendship than a high school best friend. Morgan is solid, a good fit for my less than practical side.

I’ve been called flaky, flighty, and a dreamer. Having a practical friend is always good.

I shift the sleeping baby in my arms. “You should try this new pasta Cooper’s put on the menu. It’s to die for! ”

″I eat too much pasta, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m sure Carson is going to have a wheat intolerance from how much I ate when I was pregnant.”

″I don’t think it works that way because–”

″We’re talking about me !”

Carson’s eyes flutter open at the sound of Brit’s shriek, and her grip tightens on my hair.

″Shh,” Morgan and I admonish in unison.

″Sorry,” Brit says, dropping her voice. “But I need to tell you what’s going on so we can book it.”

″You honestly want a fourth bachelorette party? We can just go out for a nice dinner and have a quiet night. Do you really think this is…?” I don’t continue because Brit is looking at me like I’ve sprouted another head. I’m not sure what I want to say anyway. Is it socially acceptable to have a fourth stagette?

Brit wouldn’t give a good goddamn even if that was the case.

″What do you want to do?” I ask with resignation.

″I want to go to Las Vegas,” Brit announces. “And both of you are coming with me.”