I hate baby showers. I even hate the thought of baby showers.
Imagine sitting in a room with at least 20 other females ranging in age from slightly-younger-than-you, to over-the-hills-and-far-away. They all have glasses of champagne… but you’re not allowed any, so you have juice. Fucking, Juice.
You’re supposed to smile away and pretend that this is the happiest day of your life. Ignoring the fact that your child is digging it’s heels into your ribs because you haven’t eaten in three hours, You’re feet feel like water balloons and You need to pee every 12 seconds but the bathroom is constantly filled by other women wanting to fix their make-up.
They buy you and the baby presents, sure. They spend a copious amount of money on getting you gifts that will be just right…
If the phone calls to see if we’re still breathing, the delivered hot meals or the extended hands of support can be wrapped in perfect paper with little pink and blue bows, then I’d love them.
Until the time comes when a baby shower means an extended list of phones numbers that can be called night or day or coffee dates to remind you that you are, indeed, a living person… I ain’t having one.
Side Note; The last baby shower I went to, I’m not that ashamed to say that I purposely got the mother-to-be/baby a mechanical bear that sung and yelled when you did so much as glance at him. Then, I had my husband glue the battery pack shut…