I Cheated On My Mom BFF And I Don’t Regret It

I first met Kate when I was single in a new town and she was months away from her wedding. It was instant envy from go. Kate is sharp and savvy. A woman who spends time in Paris. A woman who is well-versed in restaurants and art sales. She’s a writer on a show you’ve totally heard of (and may even love, as most of the modern world does). She wears a lot of black, and reminds me of what Daria probably grew up to be.

I like Kate because she’s smart and funny, and I like being around funny, smart women.  She is self-deprecating yet sincere, and her level of humor is such that she brings out the very best in you as you try to match and relate. We shared mutual friends but never set out to strike a friendship of our own. No reason, really, until we found ourselves the only ones in our respective social circles knocked up.

I announced my pregnancy promptly at 13 weeks with an adorable photo of my husband and I looking pleased with ourselves. I clogged my social networks with images of my evolving bump and comical, CATHY cartoon-like musings on being with child. Kate waited until she was 25 weeks, when she could no longer hide it. I was shocked. How did she not tell anyone? Who had that level of restraint? Again, instant envy.

I didn’t know anyone else who was pregnant, so when I learned she was due a mere two weeks after me, I reached out. She reached back. Thus began our friendship.

Our pregnancies were polar opposites. Kate’s sucked, while mine was awesome. I felt like a round goddess. Kate felt like Violet Beauregarde. I knew better than to gloat about my lovely gestation, but when she’d lament over texts, I didn’t know how to truthfully respond. I couldn’t relate.

I had my kid first. Kate followed. I had a simple slice-and-stitch C-section. Kate had hours of labor hell that manifested into an emergency C. All of her inhibitions, her concerns, her negativity fell to the wayside once she held her child in her arms. It was instant love.

We were two ladies with two babes who slept in two-hour stints. I realized, very quickly, that I’d spent the whole pregnancy reading about labor and delivery and hadn’t bother to read anything about what to do once the babe was out. Our text messages evolved from pregnancy complaints to suspiciously-worded, hesitantly asked “Does your kid …” questions, followed by giant sighs of relief once the other responded with an astounding “OH GOD, YES, YOURS TOO?” We were both in awe of our wee ones, but what struck us both was how hard it was. But I was reluctant to share the good stuff, to share the joy, to share the gushy squishy feelings my babe brought out of me with Kate. We didn’t really have that type of friendship. We had the type where, when the babe exploded out of her diaper and all over me at three in the morning, I knew I could text Kate and I knew she’d be up, grumbling about her own damp experience.

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