We had a really wonderful baby shower last weekend, hosted at our house by Stacey, Luke, Joe, Jill, and Julie. There was no tasting of baby food or estimating of my girth. Just lots and lots of pastries, a hilarious baby picture guessing contest, and a lot of lovely people relaxing on our porch. Stacey made a series of birthday cards for Perquackey, and everyone wrote him one, so from now until he’s 25, the kid’s going to be getting yearly dispatches from 2009. He’s also going to be dressed, diapered, strolled, nursed, and read to from our newly enlarged collection of fantastic stuff, not to mention the hand-painted art both hanging on his wall and literally painted on his wall.
Meanwhile, I discovered something important about baby showers. Sure, it’s awesome to get tons of presents, and it’s a hell of a way to get a dude to voluntarily purchase you something called My Breast Friend. My college roommate and her daughter came all the way from New York just for the occasion. And I will not sneeze at a chance to eat several chocolate croissants and a slice of chocolate cake, while attending a party at my own house that I don’t have to clean up after.
But the secret best reason to have a baby shower is so that you can spend a day with thirty people who love you and keep repeating the following things: “you look awesome” and “you’re going to be a great mom.” Because at eight months pregnant, I spend a lot of time thinking, “I am gigantic and strangely lumpy and have gross swollen toes” and “Ohmygod I’m going to be a mom?”
Perquackey’s got a really kick-ass network of friends cheering him on, and so do we.