“Don’t use those store-bought creams,” Tita Carmen warns, wagging her finger. “Coconut oil is the best for your stretchmarks.”
I don’t tell her that I use coconut oilandstore-bought cream, but neither have stopped the stretchmarks.
Tita Regi adds in a whisper, “And absolutely no scary movies.”
“Look at Belen’s daughter,” says Tita Johanna, pointing at her own face dramatically. “Always scowling. You know why? Because her mother watched zombie movies while she was pregnant.”
“She’s a teenager,” Ami deadpans. “All teenagers scowl.”
“She’s been doing that since she was a toddler.” Tita shakes her head gravely. “Disturbing.”
I wheeze-laugh into my soda and pineapple juice.
Neighbors, coworkers, and family friends hug me, pat my belly like it’s a community drum, and keep telling me I’m glowing. In reality, I’m sweating through my dress and waddling like a penguin in orthopedic sandals.
Seven pounds in the last month alone. Apparently normal. Sleep is a memory. My bladder is a diva demanding encores every hour. And the horniness that had taken a vacation the last few weeks? Back with fangs.
Tristan is away for game four against Toronto tonight. It’s the East Coast Final and the second to the last team on the way to the National Championship. I could not be more proud. But it’s been five days, and I miss him terribly.
Body:I’d like to file an official complaint regarding the inadequacy of zero daily orgasm allowance.
Uterus:My need for peace and quiet is more important than your raging libido.
Body:But the playoff beard!
Tristan isn’t going to shave until the playoffs finish or until the Mavericks win the championship. Hopefully the latter. I love the feel of his beard on my lips, against my palm, between my legs . . .
“Time for presents!” Ami calls everyone over to the living room.
Mom sits beside me, helping me with the endless tape and ribbons because my stomach sticking out make my arms about as effective as T-Rex stumps.
Each gift sets off its own commentary chorus. A bottle warmer shaped like a coffee machine earns gasps. “You put the formula here, the water here, press one button—it’s ready in seconds,” Tita Johanna explains.
“In our day,” Tita Carmen sighs, “we tested the temperature on our wrists.”
Someone else mutters, “Breastfeeding is really the way to go.”
Everyone and their opinions have come to party.
There’s a wipe dispenser that’s a sleek work of art, a diaper bag so chic it could double as my work tote, and an avalanche of tiny clothes that send me into squealing fits. Soft overalls, bunny-ear hoodies, socks the size of golf balls.
I try to make a gracious speech, but the words spill out messily.
“Thank you, everyone, for being here. For your generous gifts. So many gifts! Wow, I’m so very grateful. A special thanks to Mom and Dad for hosting us. Ami, you’ve been supportive from the beginning. Thank you for always, always believing in me.”
I tear up a bit when I see my military badass sister sniffle a sob.
“Tristan and I are not raising these babies alone because we’re part of this . . . this village. All of you are helping pave the way for our new adventure. So, thank you for the food, the gifts, the laughter, and for reminding me what it means to be a community.”
By the time I finish, everyone is sniffling into napkins, even Tita Johanna who insists it’s allergies. I’m wrapped in the cushiony arms of Tita Cecilia who says some kind of prayer under her breath while touching my stomach. Someone shoves a cupcake into my hand.
Suddenly, the air in the room shifts.
By the front door, a figure in a Chanel suit stands unsteadily.
Samantha Thorne, Tristan’s mother, is clutching her purse and holding her breath.
I haven’t seen her since that disastrous brunch in January. Her face carries new lines, making her look less like a mannequin. Without the placid smoothness of her Botox injections, she looks less detached. More present.
