“Get dressed, hoe. We’re going shopping.” Tara chucks a throw pillow at my face as she leaps off of the couch.

I roll my eyes so far back I can practically see my brain. The skin on my legs has permanently fused to the couch, and frankly, I don't wanna.

“When you said you wanted to hang out today, you made no mention of actually going out in public, so I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’ve been sitting here watching reruns of The Golden Girls, and I want to scoop my eyeballs out with a spork. So, yes, you are going shopping. With me. Right now. Because I need some new shoes. So get up and get some clothes on.”

I look down at my wardrobe. “I’m in clothes.”

“You’re in a bathrobe. That hardly constitutes as clothing.”

I pull the sides of my robe closed a little tighter and sit up straight. “This is not a bathrobe. I’m wearing my most comfortable terry cloth wrap dress.” Which isn’t far from the truth. I’ve spent many nights wrapped up in nothing but this robe after stepping out of the shower. Besides, it’s one of the few things that actually fit my changing body these days.

Tara folds her arms and glares at me. “And do you have a bra on underneath your most comfortable terry cloth wrap dress?” she says with dramatic air quotes. She gives me that scolding motherly look that she’s perfected over the past few years and she knows she has me trapped. “Absolutely not. And I know this because a few moments ago you were oblivious to your own wardrobe malfunction and you flashed me some nip.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Fine. I’ll put clothes on. But don’t expect me to put makeup on and look cute. I’m a hopeless case right now. Besides, I haven’t done laundry in weeks, and nothing fits.”

“Nonsense. I’ll find you something.” She tugs at my hand, trying to pull me off the couch, but I’m sunk so far into the cushions it would take a crane to lift me. When I don’t budge, she turns on her heels and whistles as she strolls down the hallway.

It takes a great effort and a few animalistic grunts, but I’m finally able to push myself up and onto my feet. By the time I get to the bedroom, she’s got half of my clothes tossed onto the bed. I lean against the wall and watch her try to work her magic with my limited wardrobe in amusement. Her eyes light up as she pulls out one of my favorite shirts from the bottom drawer.

“I can’t wear that. That would only fit a twelve-year-old the size of my pinky finger.” It’s true. While a totally adorable shirt, I haven’t worn it for at least five years. I was fifteen pounds lighter, and that was before my pre-pregnancy weight. I’d be lucky to get an arm through it now.

“Henley, if Winnie the Pooh can wear that slinky little crop top over his big ole belly and not fuck around with pants, so can you!”

“Last I checked, Winnie the Pooh was a cartoon character. And as much as I’d like to be, I am not.”

“Eh. Semantics.” She flips her blonde locks over her shoulder and continues scavenging through my clothes.

“And besides, nobody but Jeff and my gynecologist want to see what’s going on down below. Though I think Pooh Bear was onto something with the pantless trend.”

Tara smiles and tosses me a maxi dress that was hiding in a moving box in the back of my closet. I completely forgot I had this dress. I love how flowy and forgiving the style is.

But the best part? It’s not pants.

We’ve been walking around a mall a few towns away for a few hours now looking for shoes that Tara doesn’t even need. But I have to admit, it’s nice to get out of the house.

“So you feel like you’re ready?” Tara asks, stuffing her face with a cinnamon sugar pretzel that we picked up from the Auntie Anne’s counter in the food court.

“Almost. We have enough clothes to get us through the first few months, and I think enough diapers, but the only furniture we have for the nursery is the glider you bought us. We still need to buy the crib and get it assembled.”

I try not to panic that the nursery isn’t finished yet. I know that newborns are so small they could sleep in a dresser drawer if needed. Not that I would do that. That would be weird. But, if necessity required us to fashion a tiny bed in a small drawer, I could find a way to make it work, much to my mother’s horror.

“For starters, you will never have enough diapers. Take what you already have and quadruple it. Then that amount should get you through a week, maybe two. I can’t tell you how many trips Cam took to the drugstore in the middle of the night to pick up diapers because we thought we had enough. And don’t worry about the crib thing. You’ve got time, and you’ll get it figured out.”

I hope she’s right. As long as I don’t go into labor early, we’ve got all the time in the world.

“Yeah, I guess so. What else do I need to do?”

Normally these are the kinds of questions you ask your mom, but the one time I asked her for some guidance on things to do before the baby comes, she simply responded, “Get married.” Thanks, Mom. Thanks, a lot.

“Hmm, have you done the pre-registration crap at the hospital?”

“Yeah, and it was the longest two hours of my life.”

“That sounds about right. What about pretty panties? You’ve got a pair of beautiful undies to wear to the hospital?”

Is she on crack? No woman needs to have pretty, expensive undies going into battle. It’s not like you actually wear underwear during labor and delivery. And from what I’ve gathered, I’ll be given a diaper of my very own to wear after.

“Um, yeah, that’s one thing I don’t think I’ll need.” I pull a piece of pretzel from her hands and lick the sugar off my fingertips. I discard her suggestion to the top of the proverbial pile of random shit my best friend says.

“Um, no, you do need it. Do you really think Beyonce strutted into the hospital to deliver those twins sporting stretched out cotton granny panties? No. She, no doubt, was wearing a glorious bejeweled thong since she understood that she’s about to have a gaggle of voyeurs all up in her Notorious V.A.G.” Tara waggles her finger in my direction. “You could learn a thing or two from Queen Bey. Just sayin’ …”

When Tara comes to terms with the fact that we are not making a pit stop in Victoria’s Secret, and she finally finds a pair of shoes, she musters the courage to ask the one question she has undoubtedly been wanting to ask all freakin’ day. The one I’d been hoping to avoid.

“Have you and Jeff made any more progress in the drunken drama department?”

“I really think it was nothing but a little dad-to-be-bender. Things the past two weeks have been back to normal between us. I’m chalking it up to one off night. He gets a freebie. I’m not his mother, but if he wants to go out and get trashed in a blazing glory of panic, who am I to tell him ‘no?’”

Tara looks at me cautiously. “Really?”

“Really,” I promise, trying to reassure her that her best friend isn’t falling apart at the seams over some silly guy antics. “In fact, ever since the shower, he’s been a whole new level of awesome. He’s been reading and singing to the baby, doing a lot of the prep work. Actually, he’s been the one doing all of the nesting. It’s sweet. And, oh my God, Tara, you will never believe what Jeff asked to try after the baby shower the other night!”

“Anal?” she deadpans in complete seriousness.

Her comment catches me off guard, and I shake my head to rattle the word from my brain. “Ew! Gross! Not anal. You’re so weird.” My best friend’s ability to completely derail a conversation is a gift. Seriously. Where did I find this girl?

“What? Don’t mock it ‘till you try it.” She shrugs. “But before you decide you want to try it, let me know. I’ll give you some pointers.”

I cut her a side glance and silently promise myself that there are places where no man should ever go.

“So what’s up? What’d Jeff do?”

I press my lips together and try not to fall into a fit of laughter at the mere thought of Jeff’s pecs dancing under the funnels of my breast pump.

“He … um, he had some fun with some of the baby shower gifts.”

The wrinkles on her forehead are pronounced as she looks at me in confusion. “Fun like he wanted to be swaddled, call you mommy, and begged to be spanked?”

“Seriously, T?”

She simply beams at me in response. Some days I don’t even know why I bother trying to have a normal conversation with this girl.

“Here, watch this.” I pull up the video on my phone and hand it to her.

Her eyes go wide in disbelief.

“Shut your face! You’re joking, right?” she comments after a few seconds of watching.

“Keep watching, it gets better!”

And before we know it, mall patrons are giving us funny looks because Tara is doubled over in booming laughter.