Page 82 of Unexpecting

A Young Woman’s Guide to the Joy of Impending Motherhood

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid (1941)

Icould probably havewallowed in my fear and self-pity for a while, but that option was taken away from me by Brit. Brit’s response to learning that I was about to become a mother to not one, not two, but three babies was to raise one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Wow. So look, about the wedding…”

But I forgave her because Brit’s name was on the card that came with the three dozen roses Morgan sent to me the day after I found out about the triplets. For the sake of our longtime friendship, I had to believe she was a willing contributor, and Morgan didn’t just sign her name.

After the stagette, Brit had suddenly switched the wedding planning into high gear, and it got worse the closer the wedding got. The week before the wedding, she was barely off the phone with me. Listening to her go on and on about how everything needed to be perfect was quite effective in getting one’s mind off how many babies were currently expanding one’s uterus.

On Thursday, two days before the wedding, she discovered a massive flower crisis—apparently the florist had ordered pale lilac roses for the boutonnières, not the pale lavender Brit demanded. I had no idea there was such a discernible difference between lilac and lavender, but I guess Brit has a much better eye for colour than I do and she was furious that such amistake could be made. So furious, she managed to guilt me into hunting down a florist who had lavender roses for her. I had to do it because, according to Brit, it was my duty as the maid of honour, and because Brit was indisposed at the time getting her legs waxed. Plus, since I was out of school for the summer, she assumed I must have the time.

After doing my duty for the flowers, I then had to spend all Thursday night with her sorting out the seating arrangement because Brit forgot Anil was bringing the new girlfriend and she had to find a suitable seat for her. Once that was done, I made a last-minute run to the printers’ Friday morning to get another seating chart made. This made me late for work at the store, but it didn’t really matter—not to Brit anyway, since she called me every hour on the hour with some mini-crisis through which I needed to hold her hand. You’d think after planning this wedding for twenty years, things would have been straightened out by now. I was exhausted by the end of the day, but there was still the rehearsal and dinner to get through that night, which thankfully went as planned and were free of any pre-wedding drama.

Luckily for everyone involved, the day of Brit’s wedding dawned as bright and blue as if she had ordered it especially from her Pottery Barn catalogue. I was so glad it had finally arrived because I’d been forced to listen to her plan the stupid thing for years and it was about time the big day had finally arrived. It was the eighteenth wedding I’d been to in the past five years, and the tenth in which I’d been a member of the wedding party. But it was also the wedding of my oldest and sometimes dearest friend, and despite everything, I had to remember that it was a privilege to stand up for her as maid of honour. At least, I hoped it would be a privilege. I may love Brit like a sister, but she was being a royal pain in the ass, and right now I felt like stuffing my lavender roses down her throat.

″There’s no more material to let out, Casey,” an exasperated Brit told me as I struggled to zip up my bridesmaid’s dress with Morgan’s and Lacey’s help. “You’ve got to fit in it, or you’re not walking down the aisle with me.”

The gorgeous amethyst dress I helped pick out because the colour went so well with my hair and the fit and style flattered every body type did not fit me. Two weeks earlier when I last tried it on, it still fit perfectly, but today—well, let’s just say my breasts must have become a wee bit fuller in the last fourteen days. In the last couple of weeks, despite the still constant vomiting, I knew I’d put on a couple of pounds—or so the bathroom scale said—and apparently the extra weight had gone right to my boobs. I’d readbreasts do get swollen during pregnancy, but I could never imagine this much. I was blaming it on the fact that I’m having three babies.

″Don’t tempt me,” I muttered, but Brit didn’t hear me, which was a good thing, since the term Bridezilla now fit Brit to a T. I was contemplating pulling out my camera and videoing her for YouTube. Last week I was amused by her precise attention to detail. Today, I was truly scared of her.

At approximately one hour and fifteen minutes before the limo was to pick us up and take us to Glenview Presbyterian Church—according to Brit’s preparation plan—Lacey, Morgan, and I were supposed to unzip the garment bags containing our dresses. Brit had allocated us fifteen minutes to put on our dresses and touch up any hair and makeup mishaps. The hair and makeup was done at the salon earlier this morning (appointments commencing at 10:30 for Lacey and Brit and 11:15 for Morgan and me).

Then we were to spend the next hour in her childhood bedroom in her parents’ house—only six streets away from where I grew up—getting Brit into the mass of silk, satin, ruffles, and lace she called a dress. After this, it was time for quiet reflection and meditation on our duties, as well as the supreme importance of this day for Brit. I swear, that’s really what is said on the copy of the “Wedding Day Schedule” Brit handed me this morning. Not to be confused with the “What Needs to Be Done the Week Before the Wedding Schedule” I received last week or the “Wedding Rehearsal and Dinner Seating Plan and Schedule” I got last night. The girl had gone completely overboard with this.

″Okay, just suck it in a liiitle more,” Morgan urged as she gently tugged up my zipper.

″I can’t suck in my boobs,” I protested, already holding my breath for everything it was worth. I was trying to flatten my boobs or push them down onto my stomach—anything to let the dress up.

″Pull them up,” Lacey suggested. “So they’re sort of overhanging.” She grabbed my breasts in the dress and tried to demonstrate what she meant, and I’m sure I looked properly horrified, not only having Brit’s little sister practically feel me up, but by showing off so much of my breasts. Even when I’m not pregnant, my breasts are on the large side, but this—they were huge! Two days ago, I woke up to find that none of my bras fit, and I’ve had to wear my exercise bras until I have a chance to buy some new ones. I guess I should have thought about the dress maybe not fitting then, but I pretended to Brit that this was an overnight thing.

″You have to admit, you’ve got absolutely gorgeous tits now,” Lacey told me. She rubbed her hands across the aforementioned gorgeous tits and actually gave them each a cheeky squeeze. There was no “practically” now—I’d just been officially felt up by Lacey. “Fan-fucking-tastic! I’m so jealous. And kind of turned on.” She gave me a wink and reluctantly dropped her hands when Morgan cleared her throat.

″Maybe now’s not the time for that, Lacey.”

″You’ve got to admit, Morgan—just look at them! Touch them.” Lacey reached forward, but I gave her hand a quick slap.

″I’m trying to cover them up so the whole congregation isn’t tempted to touch.”

″Why did you have to go and get fucking pregnant before my wedding?” Brit suddenly shrieked, stamping her foot. ”Aaahh! Everything is supposed to be perfect, but you can’t even fit into your dress! You are the fucking maid of honour, for fuck’s sake! You’re supposed to make sure everything is perfect for this fucking wedding so I can sit around on my ass and enjoy getting fucking married. Because that’s what I’ve always fucking wanted! And that’s what you signed up for, fucking best friend! You weren’t supposed to get fucking pregnant! And you,” she turned furiously to Lacey, “leave her fucking tits alone! The only one who is allowed to have gorgeous fucking tits today is me. Me! Fuck!”

The three of us could only stare at her. The sight of Brit, red-faced and clad only in ivory lace bustier, panties, and garters, stamping her foot with frustration, was something to see. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so horrified. Brit’s hands flew up to her head to clutch at her hair, but were stopped by the gallon of hair spray that was keeping her elaborate hairstyle in place.

″Don’t touch!” Lacey gasped.

″Aaahh!″ Brit screamed again. Not shouting or yelling, but an actual scream. She paced around the room like a cat on a leash.

″Everything okay, Britney?” I heard her mother call from down the hall. Brit banned Mrs. Spears from the room earlier, when she started crying after seeing Brit return from the salon with her hair and makeup done.

″Just pull it up, Morgan,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. I held my arms out straight, Lacey pushed up my breasts (which I was not thrilled about, but now was not the time to get prudish), and Morgan finally got the zipper pulled up.

″Done,” Morgan gasped, stepping around to survey. “I don’t think you’ll be able to take a deep breath, but at least it’s done up.” I glanced at the seams under my arms and saw them straining. I prayed they didn’t burst. I prayed I didn’t burst out the top. I’d never seen myself look so voluptuous. I looked like I was wearing a corset to make my breasts overflow out the top of the dress. I could keep my lipstick and a pack of Kleenex down there, and no one would notice. I tried to stick a little more breast down the dress and prayed my nipples stayed covered.

″You look lovely,” Brit said sweetly, as if her tantrum had never occurred. She preened in front of the mirror, tucking a stray piece of hair back in place. “You all do. Now it’s time for my dress. You can come back in now, Mother,” she called. “But no crying. You’ll have a minute to do that before I get in the car. After I go, bawl all you want.”

It was not the first Jekyll and Hyde episode of the day, and I feared it wouldn’t be the last.

But we made it to the church. In the limo Lacey had suggested champagne to relax Brit, who agreed and drank half a glass, but then freaked out because her breath smelled like alcohol. I passed around the cinnamon Altoids I was instructed to have with me all day, and the crisis was quickly averted. Morgan and Lacey finished the bottle of champagne.

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