marti and erin.com

This weekend I had the opportunty to catch up with two very close friends of mine that I haven’t seen in a while. One is pregnant and the other just had a baby in October. These two social events gave me a lot to think about since I’ve never been quite sure that I am the child-rearing type. Some days I think its a great idea, other days I just can’t see it happening. This weekend made me further question whether I’m the right woman for the job…

Sunday, my one friend and I went shopping for maternity clothes. She is starting to show so we headed off to H&M Maternity, GAP Maternity, Old Navy Maternity and Macy’s Maternity. By the end of the day, she had t-shirts, pants and a pair of maternity jeans. All in all, a successful day for her but I was left wondering if I had maternity genes. At each stop I marveled how happy and excited she was, even about playing with the pillow belt in the dressing room that demonstrated she how would look in a few months. And all day I wondered if I could ever be excited about the same thing in my life. I haven’t had had the yearning yet, so I’m not really sure…

Still pondering this situation, I headed out yesterday to have lunch with another friend. She had a baby just over 10 weeks ago. She looks tired, but still very happy. I arrived for a noon lunch, we managed to get out the door at 2PM. We had bags and a stroller and chose a restaurant that was “baby-friendly.” Considering I pride myself on the ability to go anywhere on a moment’s notice, this was a lot to go through to get out of the house, but I was in awe of my friend’s determination to pull it all together so I went with the flow. While out, I was privvy to the private society of parents who stop on the street to go through the greeting ritual- first, a glance into one stroller and a compliment, then a glance into the other stroller and an equal compliment, and then a conversation about the strollers themselves. It was nice to see my friend in this new role contemplating decisions about the baby and feeling her way through the initial stages of parenthood. I don’t know if I would be up for the challenge, and it did indeed seem to be one.

These two days left me wondering if I’d ever want to turn in my low rise, boot cuts for some maternity genes. I haven’t decided yet but this weeekend certainly left me wondering if this is for me. Is this a genetic defect on my part or something my DNA was just built without?

Erin,

Morbid, absolutley morbid…but I support that. Please know that I will make sure that your wishes are adhered to and I will speak brilliantly about you at your funeral. I will not light your cigarette, especially if it contributed to your demise. Also, please note that I will name only my onery children after you. And then I will carry their belongings in a retired Vera Bradley bag.

Now that we have a clear understanding of what to do with you upon your departure from this earth, I have to pose a different question to you. What should we do with you while you are here? Should we still prop you up in the corner with a wine and a cigarette? Take you shopping for age-appropriate clothes? Or should we push you to go new places and try new things? I’d love to be a part of that process and make your time here as exciting as possible!

My feeling is that we should celebrate you en masse while you are still here! You are a wonderful part of all of our lives! Despite the surly demeanor and biting sarcasm, we love what you add to this world. In fact, I will declare today, January 13th (oddly Friday the 13th this year) National Erin Appreciation Day. Someone call Hallmark…they need to write some new cards.

Much love from your significantly more optimistic friend,
Marti

Dearests. Went to a funeral this morning, which has put me in a morbid frame of mind. Just in case I never get my act together enough to write a will or any of that jazz, I have posted below my thoughts on what kind of services I would like when I leave this mortal coil. Take heed.

1. My wake. I want to be propped up in the corner, in a nice outfit (something age appropriate, please). I want a glass of wine in front of me and I want a cigarette between my fingers. In fact, appoint someone to fit me with a smoke, light it, and replace it when it burns out. Don’t worry about ashes on the outfit — more on that later. We’ll have to do some leg work on the location — with the smoking ban due to take effect in NJ in about 90 days, there will be hurdles to jump.

2. My funeral service. Many of you should speak lovingly of me. Many of you should break down halfway through your remarks. Some of you should need to be revived with smelling salts. At least two of you — preferably men, preferably handsome, should fall to your knees and bemoan the fact that you didn’t take me away from it all when you could. Please have someone proofread your remarks. Please feel free to steal quotes from erudite, prominent and witty personages and credit them to me. Please do not put up any pictures of me in the funeral home that make me look fat or show that horrible perm I thought was a good idea in high school. Similarly, no prom photos, please.

3. My final commitment to this earth. Please ensure that I am cremated (hence no need to worry about the ashes from the wake — let them fall where they may), place me in some cool-looking urn thing (spend some money, people — I only die once!), and arrange to have my remains placed on the bar of my favorite watering hole of the time. Or shoot me into space. Whatever.

4. Subsequent celebrations. Who am I to tell you all what to do, but it would be really nice if my nearest and dearest gathered at least once a year to miss me en masse. Also, feel free to name your kids after me. Unless they are ugly. Or ornery. Also, feel free to drunk dial my exes and pretend you are me, haunting their asses. Especially the Jackass. Unless he’s wised up and figured out he’s gay — in which case, call him up, tell him I’m proud of him, and ask him what took him so damn long.

Thank you.