Just like Desperate Housewives except you don’t want to hump any of them
It’s bombshell day at America’s Worst Mother™ where Meghan takes a roundabout way to inform us that:
A) She is taking two of the four kids (Sepuku, Carpal, Profitarole, and Ook) out of school to homeschool them.
B) She is pregnant*.
I mean fuck in the “I can’t believe it. I’m shocked” kind of way as opposed to fuck in the “That’s how you get babies.” kind of way.
First she starts out by pointing out that, besides all evidence to the contrary, she does so have friends:
“Oh my goodness!” my friend Colleen shrieked as she arrived. I was standing with in a knot of mutual friends, and she rushed over to join us.
“You were the talk of the blacktop at drop-off today.” Colleen’s children go to a public school where mine do not but we know some mothers in common. “Everyone was like, ‘Have you heard about Meghan? Apparently her husband wants her to yank them out at Easter and start straight away, and oh! Did you hear what else? She’s going to have a baby!”
I laughed and exchanged grins with the other women. “I managed to talk him out of that,” I demurred. “I’m going to wait until the summer.”
Colleen put her hands on her hips. “Well, that’s what I thought, but they were like, no, no, that’s not what we heard.”
Now for the juicy stuff:
“So â€” ” she said, and paused, looking at me alertly across the wrought-iron fence dividing cafÃ© from sidewalk. “So, I hear you’re going to take your children out-“
The women sitting with me burst into laughter, and I nodded, yes.
“It’s all over town,” Heidi said into her coffee.
The blonde woman tilted her head. “And you’re expecting a â€” “
“Just doing my bit for Social Security.”
“You don’t show a bit,” the woman said with fond skepticism, shaking her curls. Then, as the throng of commuters pushed past, she fell serious. “But I don’t know. Are you sure? Home schooling, I mean? That’s going to be a lot of work. Four, no, five children â€” “
“Well,” I put in, “We’ve decided to keep two in school, so it’s really only teaching kindergarten and third grade.”
Next you’ll see that the fond skeptic with the curls must be a big reader of AWM™ because she is horrified at the thought of Meghan, who seems overwhelmed by four kids (just read her columns!) popping out another little Gurdling:
“But still â€” !” breathed the wide-eyed near-stranger. She shook her head again, clearly forced by conscience to impart her executive decision. “If I were you,” she said finally, “I’d think twice.”
“That’s good advice,” I replied, hugely amused. A friendly laugh rippled around the table, as if to say, “What are you going to do?”
There was another pause. I think my kindly acquaintance may honestly have expected me to frown, shrug, and say, “My goodness, you’re right! It will be a lot of work. It’s a good thing you urged me to think twice: The plan is off!” for she stood there a little longer, gazing worriedly at me as a mother might at an impulsive child.
“It’s going to be lots of fun,” I said reassuringly to everyone, and took a sip of my hot chocolate.
..and the Titanic was a lovely cruise.
Meghan them muses:
When I got home I realized that the reach of the Washington Venn Diagram is even greater than I’d realized. For waiting in my computer was an e-mail from my friend Fiona in London, which read as follows:
“Blow me down with a feather, just got an email from my friend Margarita in DC. Tells me you are having a baby. BLIMEY good luck.”
The funny thing is that I don’t even know her friend. Where, you wonder, did she hear it?
Let’s give credit where credit is due. World O’Crap predicted this a couple of weeks ago.
World O’Crap: She’s Big In England!
…and lets blame the baby-begetting-boffing on the bed.
That evening after supper, my husband and I are sitting on the edge of our massive new bed with an air of hypnosis.
“A real bed,” I say redundantly.
“Wow,” my husband says. “It’s so…solid.”
And we thought he was talking about the bed.
*(Note: For the time being, we’re going to refer to the latest Gurdling as Zygote until we can come up with an appropriate name. Probably a Name the Spawn contest. Just hold your fire (unlike Mr. Meghan) until we get nearer to the hatching. We wouldn’t want to be premature…which apparently Mr. Meghan wasn’t this time. Good for him. We think.)