My girlfriend is expecting a Little Miss this Halloween. Yesterday was her baby shower. It was a pink explosion. Hot pink tablecloths, pale pink frosted cookies, tutus surrounding the perimeter and princess wands for the expected princess.
In our group of friends, the scales of the next generation tilt heavily toward cooler hues of blue on the rainbow spectrum.
Grandma Nancy came over to babysit the muppets so Mom could enjoy some grownup time – discussing babies with other moms. Her mouth dropped as she saw me sign the card “To: Little Miss.” She’s having a girl?! (Because the frills and pink ribbons adorning the gift bag screamed nothing else.)
“You know, I think it’s a good thing you didn’t have a girl. I would likely have had a heart attack and died on the spot. And then I would have missed all this.” She squeezed a sniffling Destroy, wiped his runny nose as he coughed in her face and whined as he cuddled up against her chest. “By the way, I just changed his diaper, I remember those ‘I don’t feel good runny poops.’”
I was terribly excited to celebrate the pending arrival of the newest member of the Classy Moms Club – the mamas group I’m a part of. Until I started chatting with the other ladies, I’d never realized how crucial it was to have a support system of friends my age, with children the same age as mine. Who else do you turn to for a conversation around the color of newborn poop and the propensity of men to walk in on us in a mothers pumping room.
- We’ve argued pink eye vs. conjunctivitis vs. clogged tear duct over screaming boys with infected goopy eyes.
- We’ve compared methods for curing colicky constipation – apple juice, prune juice, tablets, squats or thermometers inserted in unpleasant places.
- We’ve shared birth stories from twins born 12 weeks too soon to baby boys who have no interest in joining the big bad world a week after their due date – c-sections to natural births lacking pain killers (which, really shouldn’t be natural at all).
- We’ve compared the trials and tribulations of breast-feeding, including our intimate relationship with our pumps.
These are the women who know the Dr. Brown’s bottle system is the go-to baby bottle for boys not sure they feel like exerting the effort to eat. But more importantly, these are the women who know to tell you that Dr. Brown’s bottles are called a system for a reason and can tell you how to put the damn things together.
They are lifesavers and they are moneysavers. Here’s a bumbo chair for you to borrow. Here is a full 3-6 month size wardrobe. Here, let me introduce you to a bakery called “Icing on the Cake.”
Over the past couple years, the number of kiddos has grown exponentially. It started with a single Critter – then grew to include monkeys and Pey-Peys. Most of the ladies are now bearing siblings, creating a 2-1 ration at every gathering. (For the record, I am the only mama clever enough to have had both babies at the same time.)
Little Miss’s mommy had a big blowout boy shower just about two years ago. The big-brother-to-be, J, is the closest in age to the muppets (although he wasn’t supposed to be!) I didn’t get to celebrate J back when he was merely a baby bump though.
I woke up on that Sunday morning and got up to get dressed. I’d picked out my dress the night before – it was harder than I’d realized because my midsection was already swollen. J was supposed to be four months older than the muppets, because the day of the shower, I was nine weeks pregnant. I could not wait to spend the day at a baby shower.
No one knew I was pregnant. My plan was to bask in baby glow, sending good juju to the little one in my tummy (who I had discovered was actually babies a scant three weeks ago).
Instead, there was blood.
There would be no shower. I sent a last minute text saying I was sick. Miss Manners party-going etiquette was not at the top of my list. (Clearly all has come together in the end.)
This time, I was ready to party. It was time to celebrate the newest little one and express thanks for the joy the older gang already brings to us.
And then I spilled spinach dip and barbequed meatballs down the front of my dress. I spent some quality time huddled in the kitchen, wiping down my front. I didn’t have the muppets with me, but you’d never know it by the looks of me.
All the attendees laughed. Just because you have a babysitter doesn’t mean you can escape mommyhood for even a minute. And really, how different does spinach dip look from spit up?