Bundle of Joy? Read Online Free Page B

mothers began to discuss the menu. At last, I thought, something else could occupy them. But I was wrong, of course. They all began talking in weird high-pitched voices, asking their kids what they wanted, even though I doubted the kids would know the difference between lemon and sugar, or orange crepes. They continued to list off facts about their kids by pretending to talk to them instead of each other.
    “Lynn, would you like to get a baguette with jam or fruit salad? I think you want some fruit salad, I think you do. Yes, I think you do.”
    “Travis, do you think you want to eat a Nutella crepe with Mommy?”
    “Shawn can’t eat Nutella, can you, honey, because you are allergic to nuts. We’re going to have a nice savory crepe with yummy spinach and cheese.”
    “Shelley, you know Mommy can’t eat cheese because she’s still breastfeeding, and dairy makes you gassy.”
    I looked to the lone survivor from before the mommy invasion. He was desperately waving for the waitress, who was leaning against the counter sipping a gargantuan cappuccino.I tried to catch his eye, to smile and show him that I knew how horrible it was, but I think he was scared to look my way.
    “Oh, he’s spitting up. Honey, are you okay?”
    When the waitress finally brought the guy his check, I asked for mine, too. I needed to get out of the crossfire of baby nonsense. I had lost my appetite. It took five excruciating minutes for the waitress to bring it to me. In that time Travis got Nutella all over his hair—but wasn’t it adorable? Shawn continued to spit up, eliciting all kinds of advice from the other mothers. And from what I gathered, Shelley nursed happily at a breast. I sensed the other mothers disapproved of nursing an almost-one-year-old, but I couldn’t tell why. I didn’t know enough about their strange culture.
    Back out on 9th Avenue, I glanced in at the tribe. Who were they? I wondered if any one of them could have had a conversation with me about the celebrity couple breakup. Could they have talked about anything but breast milk or allergies or the color of poop?
    I am easily amused by observing people. I enjoy embellishing little stories to Jamie to make her laugh. I planned to tell Jamie about the mommy invasion the next time we talked, but then it occurred to me: as soon as the missile hit the target, Jamie was going to be one of those women too.

3
    I was impressed that Armando had pulled it together so quickly and got the interviews squared away. But I wasn’t surprised that all five of the people he’d narrowed it down to were women.
    The interviews started at one p.m. The first one didn’t show up.
    “I hope you have a B-list,” I said to him.
    “Che?”
    “Forget it.” It was forty-five minutes until the next one got there. Karin, candidate number two, arrived early, and I knew immediately that she was a lesbian—and not someone who dabbled either. This was a wife-beater-shirt-wearing, many-earringed, combat-boot-stomping lesbian. In case there was any doubt, she had two women signs tattooed on her substantial biceps and a rainbow patch sewn onto her baggy jeans pocket. It was a check in my book. Armando wasn’t her type and she wasn’t his. Also, she worked in construction and said she liked overtime. That meant she would be out of the apartment while Armando slept and I wrote.
    “I liked her,” I said when she had gone.
    “She no look like she sound” was all he said.
    I put a star next to her name in my notebook.
    The next woman, Kelly, arrived twenty-five minutes late. I wrote that down. When she finally got there, she was a bit wound up and apologized profusely. Apparently her train had gotten stuck. She was a freelance camerawoman. She was kind of hot. She also sported a wife-beater, but was braless and beaming. Her jeans rode extremely low.
    “She nice, I think,” Armando said after she had left.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Why you no like? Because she no like girls?”
    “Listen,