Baby proof

relationship, but I could tell she understood. I think she also pulled back a little herself, out of respect for my relationship and perhaps as a point of pride. She cultivated a new circle of friends-all single women in their thirties, all searching for love.

There are times when I have a nostalgic pang when Jess is meeting the girls out for sangria in the Village-or doing all the things we used to do together. But for the most part, I do not envy her position. We turn thirty-five this year, and I can tell the benchmark birthday stresses her out. She's not desperate to marry, but she does want children someday. And she's all too aware that her eggs have a sell-by date (her words, not mine).

Which makes it all the more frustrating when I watch my best friend repeatedly star in what would make the perfect Jackie Collins novel. She consistently gravitates to unavailable types-shameless players, married men, or West Coasters who refuse to even consider living in Manhattan. In fact, she is currently embroiled in a two-year relationship with a guy named Trey, who is all of the above. I know, it's tough to be a shameless married player, but Trey accomplishes the feat with great flourish. In Jess's defense, Trey didn't tell her he was married until after she developed feelings for him, but she's had at least a year to digest the news and move on.

Bottom line, Jess has abhorrent taste in men and always has. Even in college she'd go for the frat boy with attitude, the kind of guy you can totally see being brought before honor council on date rape charges. It's odd, because in all other facets of her life, Jess is completely in control. She is confident, funny, and the smartest woman I know. She graduated summa cum laude from Princeton without studying much at all and then got her M.B.A. at Columbia. Now she's an investment banker with Lehman Brothers, kicking ass in a male-dominated world and making money I thought only professional athletes and movie stars could make. On top of this, she looks like a model. With short, blond hair and a tall, willowy build, she is more runway model than underwear model, which my sister Maura highlights as Jess's problem. 'Men don't like the runway look,' she says. 'Women do.' (Maura has a whole collection of superficial relationship theories. Some of her gems: the more attractive one in a couple always has the power; women should marry men at least seven years older than they to close the aging gap; short, bald men had better be well endowed.)

In any event, I decide it's time to confide in Jess.

So the next day we meet for lunch at a deli halfway between our respective offices. We order sandwiches at the counter, then pick up bags of Baked Lay's and bottles of Evian and sit at an open table by a window. There are five construction workers sitting behind us, and after one gets up to go, Jess remarks that he has 'the perfect ass.' She reminds me of a guy in her unabashed commentary on body parts of the opposite sex. I check out his Levi's- clad backside, agree with her that it is a mighty nice one, and then tentatively launch into my dilemma.

Jess listens intently, her expression sympathetic. It has been a long time since I have needed any real relationship counseling from her. I can tell she welcomes the distraction from Trey's latest angst-causing stunt as she says in her Alabama accent she has not shed despite years in the Northeast, 'You and Ben will work this out. Do not panic.'

'I'm not panicking yet,' I say. 'Well… maybe I am just a little bit… After all, having kids isn't really something you can compromise on, you know?'

Jess nods and recrosses her long legs. 'Good point.'

'So I'm hoping it's just a phase,' I say.

Jess lifts the bun of her chicken salad sandwich and tucks a few chips inside. 'I'm sure it's just a phase,' she says. 'A little something he's going through.'

'Yeah,' I say, staring at my turkey sandwich. I haven't had much of an appetite since our return from the Caribbean.

'Remember his guitar?' she asks, rolling her eyes. Jess loves to make fun of Ben, and he does the same to her, which I only take as a sign of their fondness for each other. She laughs and says, 'Ol' Benny Van Halen was hot to trot for a few months, wasn't he?'

I laugh, recalling the day that Ben and I wandered past a little shop in the Village called the Guitar Salon. It was tucked inside a charming brownstone, all lit up and inviting on a rainy day. So we went inside and looked around, and after a few minutes, Ben decided that he just had to own a vintage guitar. It was literally the first time he had shown the slightest interest in any musical instrument, but by this time, I was used to Ben's sudden interest in a wide range of topics. Ben is one of those people who manages to be an enthusiast for many, many things-astronomy, films, collecting old watches, you name it. So I watched him fondly and waited patiently as he asked the owner a slew of questions. Then he took his time sampling guitars, running his fingers over the strings and even attempting to play. An hour later, he was spending a small fortune on a 1956 Spanish guitar made of spruce rosewood, along with a package of lessons taught by someone of moderate fame in the New York classical guitar world.

For months, Ben practiced with an endearing fervor, quickly mastering the basics and acquiring impressive calluses. On my birthday he serenaded me with a perfect rendition of 'I Can't Help Falling in Love With You'-a song that, I sheepishly confess, makes me melt, especially because I've always maintained that Ben looks a little bit like a young, sandy-haired version of Elvis.

But a short time later, Ben lost interest in his new hobby and retired his guitar to a dusty corner under our bed. Recently, he posted it for sale on eBay. Jess reassures me now that his current fixation on fatherhood will be just as short-lived.

'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).