Emily Giffin - Baby proof

"Only problem is," I say, "Ben actually owned a guitar before abandoning the idea of becoming an accomplished musician."

"That's true," she says, scrolling through e-mail on her Black-Berry. Jess is a masterful multitasker. She furiously types a reply with her thumbs as she says, "And there's no way to temporarily own a child, is there?"

"That's where Ray and Annie's baby could come in handy," I say, thinking of the week-long stays at my sister Maura's house after she had each of her three babies. All three visits were initially thrilling as there is nothing quite as meaningful or special as meeting a new member of your family. I also loved spending such quiet, intimate time with my sister, who is usually so frenetically busy with her many Bronxville social obligations. Maura and I have had some of our best talks in that cozy new-baby aftermath, both of us in our robes and slippers with our teeth unbrushed. Still, the nighttime feeding duties I would volunteer for were always brutal, and I would leave her house with a bone-tired weariness that verged on actual pain . I honestly don't know how so many women keep that up for weeks and months at a time.

"Was the kid born yet or what?" Jess asks.

I smile at her wording. For someone desperate to be a mother, she's going to have to soften up her vocabulary.

"Any day now," I say. "So let's hope that this is nothing that a few hours with a real, live infant can't cure."

As if on cue, Raymond Gage Jr. arrives the following afternoon, following fourteen hours of labor and a last-minute emergency C-section. Ben calls me at work with the news.

"Annie and Ray want us to come right over," he says excitedly.

The hospital invite surprises me. Annie and Ray are our close friends, but I didn't think we were that close. I thought we were more "Come see the baby as soon as we take him home" level friends. Still, the current controversy notwithstanding, I am looking forward to meeting their baby.

So after work I take the subway to Roosevelt Hospital where I meet up with Ben in the hospital gift shop. He has already picked up a couple of Mylar balloons and a card that we sign on the elevator ride up to the baby wing. We make our way to Room 1231. The door is adorned with a big, pastel blue stork holding an it's a boy! banner, as are approximately half of the doors on the corridor.

Given Annie's rough delivery, I am expecting a subdued gathering, but there is a full-on, raucous party inside. The room is filled with flowers, gifts, and at least a dozen friends and relatives who are snapping photos of the baby and clamoring to hold him.

There are even a few bottles of champagne that Ray hides behind his back whenever a nurse stops by.

Ray and Annie beam as they retell the details of Annie's water breaking, the cab ride to the hospital, and their fight right before Annie got her epidural when Ray admitted he had left the video camera at home. We laugh and listen and admire Raymond Jr., who looks exactly like his father (and I'm not one who can normally see such resemblances).

It is a good time for all, but I am very aware of the effect the celebration is having on Ben. He is swept up in emotion and clearly thrilled for our friends, but I can tell that he is also uneasy and wistful. Not quite sad, but as close as you can get to being sad without actually being sad. His expression reminds me of a single bridesmaid at a wedding as she listens to the twentieth toast of the night.

Just as we are about to take turns holding Raymond Jr., a lactation consultant stops in, and Ray asks politely if everyone would please leave. I'm surprised that Annie, who would have been burning bras had she been born a few years earlier, cares a lick about her privacy, but then again, don't they say a baby changes everything? We give Annie and Ray our final congratulations and tell them we'll be in touch soon.

As we ride the subway home, I am hoping that Ben understands that the party only lasts so long. That once you bring the baby home from the hospital and a few weeks pass, the champagne-and-casserole flow stops, and you're on your own in the middle of the night.

In case this point is lost on him, I let a few weeks pass and then call Ben and innocently suggest that we offer to babysit for Annie and Ray. Give them a chance to go out alone. Ben thinks it's a great idea. We conference call our friends who graciously accept.

So the following Friday night, Ben and I take a cab over to Annie and Ray's and climb the stairs to their third-floor walk-up (as I comment on how hard it will be to drag a stroller up and down the steps). I am hoping for a set of haggard parents, a messy house, the stench of sour milk commingling with the odor of dirty diapers. But Ray comes to the door clean-shaven and chipper, and I notice with dismay that their apartment is spotless. Neil Young's "Good to See You" is playing a bit louder than you'd expect in a home with a new baby, who is sleeping angelically in his car seat.

"Where are you all going tonight?" I ask, eager to move them on their way. Leave the baby with Ben and me. Shine a light on our grand incompetence.

"Change of plans," Annie says briskly. I note that she looks beautiful. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek chignon, and she still has that pregnant glow.

"What? Too tired to go out?" I prod.

"No. We're all going out. Table for four at Pastis awaits us!" Ray says.

I silently curse my choice of nice jeans, a basic black top, and flats. I can't very well protest on the grounds that I'm wearing babysitting garb. Not that my friends would likely accept an "I'm wearing sneakers" sort of excuse.

"Are you sure?" I say. "We wanted you to have some time alone."

"No! We miss you guys!" Annie says, hugging me.

"So who is watching Ray junior?" Ben asks.

"He's coming along," Annie chirps.

"Seriously?" I ask.

Annie nods.

"He sleeps all the time. He'll be fine!" Ray says, lifting his son's car seat up as if to prove the point. "Hey-you guys wanna hold him before we take off? We have a few minutes… It won't wake him up."

"Sure. Let me wash my hands first," I say, remembering my sister's obsession with germs after her first baby was born.

I walk over to the kitchen sink and scrub in, considering my strategy. Should I jostle him a little and try to wake him? Should I feign an awkward cradle, proving that babies aren't my thing? I dry my hands and decide that such stunts might be too obvious. So I gently take the baby from Ray's outstretched arms. I cradle his tiny head with my free hand and sit on the couch next to Ben. We both gaze down at Raymond Jr., who is wearing a white cashmere onesie and matching cap. He remains sound asleep, and I can tell right away that he is going to screw me and play the role of perfect baby.

After a few minutes of conversation, Ben says, "May I?"

Annie beams. "Of course."

Ben is a natural, completing my handoff with ease. Raymond Jr. opens one eye and peers up at Ben. Then he yawns, tucks his knees up against his chest, and falls back asleep. Ben looks smitten.

"Don't they look precious together?" Annie says.

I nod, feeling annoyed by my friend's use of the word precious . It is the first sign that she has changed. The old Annie would never have used a word like precious -unless doing so disparagingly.

Ben runs one finger gently over Raymond Jr.'s cheek. "I can't believe how soft his skin is."

Of course he can't have a little eczema or baby acne, I think.

Ben keeps gushing. "Look, Claudia. Look how tiny his fingers are."

Raymond Jr. clutches Ben's thumb, and I wonder how I'm supposed to compete with a stunt like that. The kid is good .

"Does he ever cry?" Ben says.