Olivia and Chloe, BFF's

Mags is a very private person. She doesn't typically post status updates on Facebook and Tweeting would be impersonal. She shares her life with a select few people.

This is the reason I didn't tell you she was pregnant too. That's right. Two-thirds of The Trifecta are knocked up, leaving Amie stumbling around proclaiming we've ruined her social life until we remind her she now has two designated drivers.

Although we have matching baby bumps and her due date is only ten days after mine, I waited until she was in a good mood, "So, can I blog about our matching pregnancies?"

"Yes, of course, but only if you tell the world about our pregnancy differences. I think that would be hilarious."

"Oh, you mean the fact that you say things like, 'Y'know. I wouldn't even know I was pregnant if I didn't have a bump."

It's so annoying.

I went with Mags to get her pee sticks when she and hubs first decided to start trying. They boned for a month and all of the sudden she wants to have lunch at Sammy's Woodfired Pizza, where she announced that she's with child. I pulled out my Droid and calculated her due date. I was right on the money. Olivia will be here May 8th and her BFF, little Chloe, is set to arrive on May 18th.

This is where our similarities end.

While my nausea at first made me catatonic in the evening, Mags was running errands and complaining that she didn't "feel" pregnant.

While I burp through dinner and rely on an entire roll of Tums to make it out the door before acid begins to shoot fire through my esophagus, Mags is shoveling Thai into her gullet and making, "mmmm" noises.

While my back spasms and pains shoot down my legs Mags is tying on her little tummy support band to go for a quick run.

While our Ob/Gyn, Dr. Spoon, was telling me that I have Rib Flare and that it is time to take Pepcid so I can eat at night, Mags was shoving her skinny ass into her pre-pregnancy jeans at 25 weeks and keeping them together with a hair band.

We had appointments within five minutes of one another this week and Dr. Spoon laughed as we checked each other's weight, breast measurements and urine output, "That's all you've got?" He gave us the green light to do our Gestational Diabetes test together and I have to admit I got a little exited when I heard Chloe's heartbeat through the paper thin wall while I waited.

Then my ribs really started to hurt and I asked Mags a simple question, "Are you getting any pain under your boobs yet? Like pins and needles in your ribs? It hurts so bad."

"Nope."

"Phhhbbbllltttt."

"Don't hate."

"Hating would be over boots or a new bag. This is just fucking ridiculous. If your labor is 45 minutes long and ends in an orgasmic birth... God, help you."

She thought that was pretty funny.

We've already told Dr. Spoon that when we go into labor together we want to be in side-by-side rooms. In the beginning stages we'll walk the halls together, peek out of our rooms like we do when we see him, butt-less gowns to the wall. The husbands will give each other updates in the hallway as things start to progress and our girls will have a wonderful story to start their own friendship.

But, let's be honest. I'll be grunting and pooping when Mags merrily walks in to my room after having birthed a cherub. My daughter will be gripping my vagina with her hands refusing to come out. Mags will be wearing a size 2 and Jimmy Choos and I will have to throw my ice chips at her, exclaiming that I can't be friends with the Devil's children.

I do love being pregnant together, looking over baby shower invitations and bedding. We talk about our girl's photo shoots together and how different they will look, mine with my milky white skin, Mag's kid the color of caramel. Sometimes we'll grab lunch together and giggle over milkshakes. Then a baby in the restaurant will start screaming, a pet peeve of Mags. I smile sweetly and remind her of my impending heartburn, "You realize that is going to be your child, right? Screaming in restaurants, throwing things in the mall, temper tantrums? No signs of pregnancy equals Devil child. Enjoy, bitch."

Then I take a swig of my milkshake while Mags narrows her eyes and starts to laugh. I match her stare with my own challenge, all the while nervously thinking, My daughter better be a freaking angel. She can't win this part too.

And whether or not she does, a lot of happiness surrounds our big bellies and Fun Aunt Amie's proclamation that our daughters are going to bankrupt her.

I guess this begs the question - What is a trifecta when it starts to multiply?