My beloved co-worker and friend Margot is getting seriously pregnant. My god, she’s not even at 4 months, and I’m already resting files and Chinese food upon her unborn child, who we have named Coco. Everyone now refers to the baby as “Coco” and when her in-laws were in town, Margot and her husband Marc kept talking about Coco’s room and Coco’s kicking.
“What’s a Coco?” asked Marc’s mom, shocked to learn that Margot’s bizarre co-worker, “Bethy” had already named her first grandchild.
The fabulous thing is, the name Coco is growing on everyone. And Coco’s growing like crazy inside of Margot. Everyday she walks in, twice the size as before. She’s got elastic waist pants, maternity tops, and morning sickness. I mean, Margot is legitimately pregnant. I can’t believe it. We’re planning baby showers and picking out furniture. My boss and I were shopping in downtown Mill Valley yesterday, and stopped in a designer baby store to pick out presents for Coco. Margot and Marc are really having a kid.
And while thrilled for them, I’m most fascinated by the fact that my good friend has got something noticeably growing inside of her, moving around and making her barf. As the only time I feel my biological clock ticking is when I see a well dressed, well behaved child for short periods of time, I’m living vicariously through my knocked up friend. Most importantly, I’m learning about the miracle of life, the miracle of unprotected sex and the miracle of elastic waist jeans…