Years ago, I took classes at Upright Citizens Brigade in New York, and felt a thrilling frisson when one of the founders, Amy Poehler (of Saturday Night Live and Parks and Recreation), came in to check on something in the theater while we were playing big-booty or crazy-eights or pirate-ninja-robot or whatever. There she was, all pint-sized and normal in the cool dark basement theater. Little did I know she was my celebrity uterus twin.
I don’t know if everyone gets a tinseltown doppelganger for their reproductive parts, but Poehler and I are BFFs of the OB-GYN variety. Okay, really all that happened was that we had both our kids at the same time as I blossomed with my first pregnancy, I watched her do the same, and let me look it up. Okay! My daughter’s was born on October 23, her son Archie’s on October 25. (Never mind that she was pre-term. Stay with me here.) Abby’s birthday is August 3, and her son Abel’s is August 5. That’s just weird. She is totally copying me.
What this means in practical terms, at the moment, just now, I look in the mirror and see: Bloop. I don’t even look pregnant that’s fun and glamorous. I just look like bloop. (Yes, I’ve started weight watchers you’ll hear about that soon.)
And I look at Amy Poehler on TV, and see: Whee! She looks like a million bucks, with her décolletage and her manageable middle, despite her husband’s complaints about sleepless nights. Okay, she’s a celebrity; she probably has a baby nurse, a nutritionist, a personal trainer, and a girdle.
Whereas I have a Baby Bjorn and a toddler, both of which I wear strategically in front of my middle. Other strategies include hanging the bags under my eyes over my middle, pretending I’m still five months pregnant, and not leaving the house.
I’m not begrudging Poehler her cuteness. In fact, I applaud it. I’m just saying: if we’re twins, I’m owed some abdominal muscles. Can somebody get on that?