Poetically enough, the start of the New Year coincided with the start of my second trimester. After beginning 2005 with an “everything looks great” visit to my obstetrician, it was time to do what I’d been dying to do for months: tell the world – or, at least, my world – that I was going to have a baby.

First up was Maya. Knowing it could be Go-Public Day, I made a date to see her the afternoon after my doctor’s appointment. It was an unseasonably mild day – it felt more like late March than early January – and so, on arriving at her DUMBO loft, I suggested that, instead of getting coffee, we head to the ferry landing for ice cream.

“Ice cream?” she said. “It’s not that warm. What are you – pregnant?”

I shrugged, smiled, and said, “Actually….”

After we hugged and I told her the due date, I learned that telling people you are pregnant (at least when the other person has never been pregnant) is kind of a conversation-killer. I mean, where do you go from there? “How’s work going” and “What’s up with that guy you’re dating” seem too mundane by comparison. Then again, what more is there to discuss about the pregnancy?

Apparently, very little. Maya and I proceeded to the ice cream place. We were both smiling, but neither of us had much to say. Every few paces, she would turn to me and say, “You’re pregnant!” and I would respond, “I know!” There was a little variation. Sometimes she turned to me and said, “You’re gonna have a baby!” I would still respond, “I know!”

Aside from a temporary respite in the ice cream place, where we deliberated the relative merits of mint chocolate chip – oddly appropriate for wintertime – or butter pecan – always a winner, especially at this place – “You’re pregnant!” “I know!” was pretty much the extent of our dialogue that afternoon.

So, when I sat down to lunch with Hallie the next day, I had a plan. I was determined not to let my news overwhelm the occasion. We met at one of the quasi-French places on Smith, the one that served brunch-type fare for lunch, even on the weekdays, and, though I knew everything on it, I took an extra-long time perusing the menu.

“I have ordering impotence,” I told her.

She nodded. She’d been there. “Can’t decide between lunch or breakfast foods?” “No,” I said. “That was two minutes ago. I decided to go breakfast. Now I can’t settle on sweet or savory.”

“Mmmm,” she said. “Always a tough call. Well,” she said, “I’m going sweet with banana pancakes. If you go savory, you can always have bites.”

“Perfect,” I said, putting down my menu. “Eggs Florentine it is!”

The rest of the meal proceeded normally – we talked about my work, her nursing school, the difficulty her musician fiance was having finding a suitable day job – pretty standard stuff. When the check came, I decided to lay my big news on her. “So…there’s something else I’ve been wanting to tell you,” I said, setting the stage for the surprise. “I’m pregnant!”

“No wonder,” she said. Though such nonchalance was classic Hallie, I couldn’t help but look confused. “Look at this,” she said, gesturing to her place by way of answer. “You’ve eaten your whole order and two thirds of my pancakes. I’m glad you’re pregnant and not just a big hog.”

And then, of course, there was telling the person I really couldn’t wait to tell but also had some trepidation about sharing my happy news with: my nemesis Courtney.

On the one hand, she’d been lording her own pregnancy over me with pointed looks and thinly veiled innuendo for months now; surely the announcement that I, too, was expecting would put an end to her not-so-subtle queenly condescension.

On the other hand, I dreaded telling her. The wife of my Platonic childhood friend Matthew, she had always hated me – or, if not exactly hated, then at least always found a way to make things between us unpleasant and competitive. Was it really necessary to bring the unborn into this twisted dynamic?

Yes.

Last night, Matthew, Courtney, Andy, and I were all having dinner at the home of Liz and Josh, mutual friends with a one-bedroom co-op in a converted factory on the good edge of the BQE. (Hosting regular Thursday night dinner parties was apparently Liz’s New Year’s resolution.) Never one to be coy, Andy cut to the chase during the pre-dinner, sitting around eating hummus and pita.

“We’re expecting a baby,” he said, smiling. (I was just glad he hadn’t gone with the annoyingly oversensitive and inaccurate, “we’re pregnant.”)

“I knew it,” said Courtney, as Liz rushed over to give me a hug. I knew Courtney had her suspicions; she’d caught me red-handed grabbing maternity clothes at a charity clothing swap. But leave it to her to smugly try and ruin the moment.

Matthew began asking about the particulars-what week I was in, had we gotten sonogram pictures yet–and as I answered, I could see his wife’s face over his shoulder.

Her expression went from self-satisfied I-told-you-so-ness to something that looked like disappointment. Was she bummed no longer have her fertility to lord over me?

Before I could wonder about this any further, Liz burst in with a comment that refocused my thoughts.

“It’s so great that you guys are both pregnant together,” she said, looking back and forth from me to Courtney. “You’re gonna have so much fun!”

The Brooklyn Chronicles appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.