Crowning Achievement

I used to have two friends. I lost the first one when I visited her in the hospital. She had just given birth to a baby boy and I’d been asked to come. The tiny room was crammed with family and friends, arms cluttered with blue-wrapped gifts. She looked horrible, but people kept saying she was glowing, so I smiled and said, “You look good.” When the nurse brought in the baby, everyone cooed in excitement, as if he were a miracle and not just the result of basic human biology.

I hadn’t realized how many friends my friend had and I felt both overwhelmed by these new faces and annoyed to be one of many. We’d met over ten years ago, on the first day of our first job. It was a tough time for me: I’d gone from being the smartest one in the room to being in rooms full of the smartest people. I had suddenly become very much ordinary.

My friend was perhaps marginally less bright than me and I liked that about her. When we were together, I called the shots, gave advice, led the way, felt needed. Our friendship comforted me in my life choices. Now, she was a mother and it felt like she’d just won a race I hadn’t entered.

She asked if I wanted to hold the boy and handed him to me before I could say no. This was the first baby I’d ever held, but I’d watched enough TV to know it was some kind of consolation prize. “Hold this great achievement of mine. Doesn’t that feel good?” No, it doesn’t feel like anything.

This baby had a few wisps of hair sprouting from his scalp. As a kid, I imagined hair came from a giant, dense ball inside our heads — something that unraveled every few days to push a strand out of a pore, like pressing dough against a strainer.

Ever since my friend got pregnant, it’s felt like I have a thought-ball in my head instead, with thoughts so tightly knotted that I can’t tell one from the other. I don’t know which came first, which matters, or which to ignore.

I just know I’m envious of something she has — something I never even wanted.

The baby started crying and I happily passed him down to someone else. Stepping away from the crowd, I found an empty seat in the corner of the room. I took out my phone so no one would think I was open to small talk, and looked at the scene in front of me.

Since childhood, I’ve loved watching people, observing them closely to catch a glimpse of their lives. I would pick up on the way they turned their heads when they laughed, covered their mouths as they chewed, a sway in their hips as they walked. I would store all these tiny cues in my head, building a mental library of human behavior.

I paid particular attention to conversations. Listening to others helped me form a sort of template for interaction. “Ah,” I thought while listening to two girls in a cafe, “you can simply reply ‘that’s hilarious’ to validate someone’s stories. It doesn’t need to be too deep or complicated.”

What was happening in front of me now wasn’t particularly interesting. I’d seen it all before: a sweaty mother claiming the pain was worth it; grandparents beaming as if they’d had something to do with it; empty remarks no one believed — “he looks exactly like you,” “congratulations,” “my heart just doubled in size.”

Then someone said, “It’s amazing to think that something so small will grow up to be just like us.”

My thought-ball still in tangles, I said, “If he makes it that far.”

Everyone looked at me with visible shock. My mental library was telling me I should laugh it off or stammer out an excuse to soften the blow. Except I hadn't said anything bad, not technically. I had just pointed out an obvious caveat.

Horrible things happen to people every day. You could die crossing the street or going shopping. Just a few days ago, I’d seen on the news that a crazy gunman had killed five people in a supermarket. Things like that exist in this world.

And yet, two hours in, this baby was already expected to become someone.

Hoping to save the moment, an old aunt stepped in: “Of course he’ll make it, look how strong this little bundle of joy is.” She wiggled the baby around, and I couldn't help but laugh, imagining what the baby was seeing: a stranger’s swollen face spitting out sounds he didn’t yet understand.

Mistaken my laughter for affection, the room relaxed. The baby was passed around again, like a game of hot potato.

My friend was smiling, at peace. This was the same person who doubted everything, who’d call me late at night with existential dread only I could soothe. She was disorganized, indecisive.

And yet, she seemed eager to be everything to this little boy. She wasn’t afraid and that scared me.

“Are you ok, love?” her mom asked, sitting on the chair next to me. We’d met once or twice before.

“Sure, just a lot to take in,” I said, trying hard to be truthful without being inappropriate.

“She’s really glad you came, you know. You were the first person she wanted to see when her water broke.”

I’m sure that’s not true.

“Of course I came. I wouldn’t want to miss this,” I said, knowing that wasn’t true either, but thinking better than to shock everyone a second time.

I suddenly felt exhausted. Saying things I don’t mean has that effect on me.

I stood up to leave just as someone brought in a cake — blue icing, sculpted into what looked like a crowning marzipan vagina. People thought it was hilarious. I found it revolting and instinctively squeezed my pelvic floor, grateful mine would never look like that.

I left without saying goodbye. I didn’t know what to say.

The metro ride home was packed. Next to me, a woman spoke calmly into her phone. “Yes, Nicolas was picking up the kids at school today. I’m sorry I missed you, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Maybe I’d soon be the person on the other side of the call. Hoping to see a friend who had grown up. Moved on.

Maybe it was better not to see her. Not to be reminded of what she had that I lacked: a vagina that had crowned, a room full of friends, the ability to lie to make others feel better, the confidence to bring someone new into the world.

Maybe I’d already lost this friend.

I hope my second friend never gets pregnant.