I had no choice, so I dragged myself on Sunday to a baby shower. Can you say no to these kinds of events, without being called bitter? This one was for my next-door neighbor, so I couldn’t pretend to have a prior engagement, since they could see me lounging in the backyard.
I was one of the few women in attendance who didn’t have kids, who wasn’t wearing a sundress, and who couldn’t score points in the party game, “guess what’s in the baby food jar.” (Mothers, how do you tell the difference between puréed sweet potatoes, carrots and acorn squash without tasting it first?)
I oohed and aahed appropriately during the opening gifts ceremony. Those tiny booties with animals on them are really cute, and after all, they’re shoes. But as the rest of the guests chimed in, “oh, you’re going to love those burp pads,” and the “Baby Bjorn [1] is an absolute MUST,” I sat back on the sofa and felt like an alien.
It was not all a bust. The scones and tea-sandwiches were tasty, and I got lavender body lotion as a parting gift.