Rani Meyer
Don’t even think about it. I’ve been preparing for this moment since Nisha told us she was pregnant.
Mala Meyer
Yeah, get in line @Kavi Case.
[GIF of women catfighting]
Nisha Arora
Nice. I expect nothing less than a full-on death match in my living room.
thirty-nine
nisha
Pierce Party of Three
Two Weeks Later
My backyard looks like Martha Stewart threw up on it.
Okay, so perhaps that wasn’t the imagery I was going for.
What I mean is, it looks like the pages of a home and garden magazine came to life. There are twinkling string lights swaying under the pergola in the soft May breeze, flowers in large mismatched vases lined down the farmhouse table, and fluffy pink blankets artfully draped on Adirondack chairs like we’re hosting a catalog shoot and not a baby meet-and-greet.
Oh, and throw pillows. Lots and lots of outdoor throw pillows. Would it even be a party at my house without them?
Though, I can’t take much credit for the party or decor since Patton hired professional decorators and caterers for this event. And while I’d like to apologize for not putting a whole lot of effort in, I’m cutting myself some slack.
Ever since we brought our little girl home, both Patton and I have gotten roughly two-point-five hours of total sleep. I’m exaggerating, of course, but also, not really. It’s as if Gia thinks she’s living in another time zone. Or maybe she’s already livingher best sorority girl life, sleeping most of the day and partying through the night.
So yes, when Patton called in professionals, I didn’t argue. Between cluster feeding, diaper blowouts, and baby spit up, I’ve barely had enough brain cells left to dress myself, let alone host people.
Thankfully, the temperature has warmed up, so while there’s more pollen and insects in the air, the sun feels amazing after almost a week of rain, though rain in the Bay Area is always a welcomed event.
My eyes travel to Bob sitting beside Rome and Pearl, playing an intense game of Jenga on one of the tables. Ariana, Dev and Piper’s almost two-year-old, is giving Bob a health exam using her toy stethoscope to check his ear for a heartbeat. Dev stands nearby, watching her. The man might be a no-nonsense billionaire whose negotiating skills in the boardroom rival that of a Supreme Court litigator, but you wouldn’t know it based on the tender way he looks at his daughter. I can’t blame him, either. The kid is so ridiculously cute, I’m ready to permanently change my doctor and find an appointment with her.
I smile at how patiently Bob lies there, but his eyes say what his lips can’t:I’ll be giving her a one-star rating for her bedside manner after enduring this torture.Though the real miracle has been that he hasn’t seen one of his mortal enemies—a butterfly. I know the second that happens, he’s going to want to beg to go back into the house with his tail tucked under him, the big baby.
These days, instead of the dreaded dildo or one of my underthings, Bob’s been carrying around one of Gia’s used onesies. One is currently lying under his chin like he’s guarding a dragon’s egg.
What can I say, our dog has always hoarded personal items as a show of his acceptance and affection. And he has loads of that affection for his little sister, sniffing and snuggling her everychance he gets. Not a single moment goes by where he isn’t watching her like she’s a government asset under his protection. And while it’s strange in that slightly stalker way that he parades around her onesie, I’d rather it be that than my thong while we have company.
Speaking of thongs, all mine are nicely tucked away in the bottom drawer of my dresser, to be used one day in the future when my body no longer feels like it’s being held together by stitches and prayers.
For now, I’m in my cotton, high-waisted era. The kind that comes in multipacks and could double as a sling or a parachute in case of an emergency. And honestly, given my boyfriend has never cared about what I wore under my clothes, so long as he could get to what he needed quickly, I have zero regrets about choosing comfort over butt strings.
And yes, to Patton’s dismay, we now officially refer to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend. He would much rather we erase our past years of separation and go back to being husband and wife, but as I’ve told him before, one thing at a time.
The thought of not marrying him, when he officially asks me, hasn’t even crossed my mind—there’s no man I love more than him—but I’d at least want to look less like roadkill in the photos.Not that it matters. The paparazzi will always do me dirty, no matter how hot I look that day.
I look up, finding Patton’s eyes on me. Gia, with a knitted pink bow half the size of her body that I made for her, is tucked safely in the crook of his elbow.
It’s crazy how fast I melt when I see him like this with his broad shoulders relaxed, strong forearm and big hand holding her protectively, and that ever-present soft gaze, like he’s still unsure if this is all real, taking us both in.
And she’s no better. Just like she used to react to his voice and nearness when she was in my stomach, she coos and smileswhenever she’s in her dad’s arms. Like she knows she’s in the safest place possible.
