Dear C,

What a charming picture of domestic bliss you and baby presented just now, when I called round to drop off my gift.  There you both were, nestled up to the fake fire, baby nursing contentedly in your arms.  Would it surprise you to hear that I was tempted to go postal on my own family upon my return to my own distinctly fire-less hearth and home?

It seems, dear neighbor, that I am currently suffering through a temporary case of insanity, a.k.a. baby envy, which came on at the hospital almost the second your youngest poked out her head.  Several times, in those subsequent hours, I came close to snatching said babe out of your arms and bolting for the nearest exit, prior to boarding the next plane to Las Vegas and living life on the lam as a thirty-and-then-some single mom.  It was all so exciting, you see – and the best part was, I didn’t have to give birth!

That turned out to be the problem of course.  Suddenly, I realized it wasn’t at all about me.  There you were, quietly nursing this bundle of potential while graciously receiving visits from family and friends….while I got to return home to the same tedious old husband and rapidly aging children, whose personalities (and issues) were only too real. 

Deep down, I know that the last thing I want is another impediment to self-fulfillment.  Babies make wonderful fashion accessories, of course, but do I really want another two-year old wiping snot on my leg as I prepare to step out into the world and greet the fame and fortune that I just know is waiting for me out there, somewhere?

I think not, dear C, which is why I would ask you to wear your rattiest bathrobe and slippers next time I call round.  Unless you actually need a break from mothering for the next say, oh, eighteen years, in which case I promise to treat baby as my one of my own.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

You have an amazing ability to filter out "the rest of the story" while gracing my abode with your presence.  Did you notice, while you were here, that my nine year old son was demanding I allow him to download Eminem on his iPod or my seven year old princess whining that her life was ruined by the entrance of another girl in the family?  Surely you couldn’t have missed the four year old attached just below my neck.  He was eyeing baby’s access to my breast in a suspicious and disappointed fashion, much like hubby now does.

I confess I appreciate the cherubs’ feelings of displacement as I am, as yet, most days unable to call each of them by the appropriate name on the first try.  As an only child, I only assumed those in large families were having more fun.  Why didn’t I ever ask?  What I find most interesting is how few of my contemporaries in D.C. seemed to have followed a similar path of chaos.  I’m afraid they seem to think nurturing the individual is terribly important.  My own Midwestern upbringing suggested seeking this kind of attention for oneself was just bad form, an idea I foster with my own offspring and marriage partner, if not myself.

I do suppose I decided to have number four, however, as a way to distinguish myself on the East Coast.  It has become readily apparent in the last year that none of my lovely offspring may be either the brightest or most talented of their private school classmates.  But they will have come from a large brood.  As college admission discussions by the parents of children in my daughter’s second grade class revolve around finding a passion as an admittance strategy, I believe I have given them all a cause: not getting lost in the crowd.  Do hope this is enough.

So while you’re concerned about the tedium of your current existence, and I try to pretend my youngest is my only child, I think we should focus instead upon that which we can control: our own limited opportunities for pleasure.  As soon as the au pair emerges from her lair to take over for too few hours, I’m popping down to whisk you away for a mani/pedicure, telling her, of course, that I have an important client meeting.  Any objections?

Faithfully,

C.

P,

Words really can’t express my gratitude for your willingness to attend me in my most desperate moment.  I was terribly sorry to interrupt afternoon tea, but when hubby mentioned that his meeting was incredibly important, and the contractions were no more than three minutes apart, I really felt I must take some decisive action.  I was surprised that two other neighbors claimed their schedules didn’t allow a quick drive to the hospital as it was even on their way downtown.  As a working mom, I certainly understand the drive to succeed, but this did seem like a necessary interruption, at least for me.  Must confess I never met with such resistance in the Midwest, where giving birth is considered a function of the highest order.  Fortunately, your attentive nature made sure you found me, submerged in the bathtub like a beached whale, moaning under the pulse of the shower head while sobbing into the phone about my plight. 

After waddling to your house with bathrobe and suds trailing, I truly believe the PBS documentary about the wives of King Henry VIII and the hot cuppa saved me from complete hysteria.  It calmed my nerves considerably and made me realize beheading could, possibly, be worse.  Was a bit embarrassed when I remembered that your spouse worked from home and he called down to ask about the screams of agony coming from the family room.  Considering my youngest was born within an hour of admission to the hospital, I think you made the right call when you insisted on rolling me to the car and drove like a shot to have me admitted.  The dings on hubby’s SUV will always be considered as a glorious reminder of how hard you fought to get me where I needed to be.

It seems a tad unfortunate that my strongest recollection from the birth, besides the lack of pain medication, will be the midwife’s insistence that I was older than my thirty-seven years.  Telling a woman about to give birth that she must really be forty-two does justify my immediate response about her excess facial hair, doesn’t it?  Hope the thank you note with the enclosed depilatory kit makes things better between us.

Lucky for me hubby was able to zip in just under the wire to discover not only had I hired the hottest doula on the east coast but that wife and daughter were doing just fine.  I had warned him, since I drove myself to the hospital for the birth of our first cherub, that when I say hurry, I really do mean get your ass here now.  Fortunately, I was able to rouse him from sleep for the birth of the middle two and he didn’t have the option of claiming a work conflict.

I must admit your constant presence made all the difference as both the hairy midwife and the hired doula seemed to have no clue about the true nature of my pain.  When I was screaming that I couldn’t take it anymore, and everyone else cooed that I was strong and brave, it was only your slap and commanding "Pull it together, Mama," which saved the day.  As I mentioned, really do think you should reconsider a career in crisis management.

Gotta run as youngest is happily nursing and I have a client to call–can’t say they were glad to give me the two weeks away from their legal woes as it was.  Must admit to feeling a bit overwhelmed trying to manage three olders while one more darling hangs almost constantly from my nipple.  The au pair does seem grateful for my lessons about the true meaning of motherhood and confessed she will unfailingly take her birth control pills for many years to come.  Who knew my greatest contribution might be as the poster child for teenage abstinence? 

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

Let me be the first to say that truly, it was an honor to be present at the birth of your fourth child – and what a beauty she is, too!  Secretly, of course, I have longed to be caught up in a birth drama such as yours – the urgent phone call, the rush to the hospital; the fact that no-one else, including the putative father of your unborn child could be there for you during your hour of need. Naturally, there are those who might claim that your husband’s reluctance to cut short the weekly staff meeting to be there until the bitter end was a result of all the unfortunate false alarms you had in the weeks and months leading up to the momentous event.  Rest assured, however; I was there for you, during every one of those middle-of-the night calls, even if they came to naught.

So glad, also, that my words (and gestures) of support proved helpful during the difficult hours of active labor, which you insisted on enduring, as is the wont of so many super-moms in Washington DC, without any kind of drug relief.  I made the mistake of giving birth (twice) in London, where my own equally hairy and definitely childless midwife took it upon herself to let the epidural wear off for the pushing stage.  I have an outstanding contract on the woman as we speak.

In your case, however, the choice of a comely German maiden barely out of her teens to act as your doula certainly seemed to meet with the approval of your husband, although I fear her exhortations to ‘push through the pain’ might have come across as a tad patronizing, coming from someone simultaneously texting her friends about meeting up at the club later on.

Rest assured, however, when it comes to post-partum glamor, you take the prize.  That fetching purple silk negligee seemed to re-focus your husband’s attention only too well, and may immediately have to be tossed, unless you want to find yourself in the same situation, nine months along.  Good job in telling him to run along home, after baby’s three other siblings called to ask you for dinner, in the manner of open-mouthed chicks squawking from the nest!  Kudos, also, for handing baby over to doula and demanding narcotics – in the form of two Ambien – before retiring for the night.  As a busy litigator and mother of four, you know better than most, the importance of prioritizing self at all times.

Faithfully,

P.