The shower was last night, and despite a swimming success (due in no small part to my Wonder Mother, who made enough food and bought enough booze to keep Caesar's forces happy) I'm a little cross this morning. Maybe it's those cats who just can't seem to leave well enough alone. They've been crowding me and meowing at me and stomping around the house all night. ALRIGHT! I'M UP ALREADY! THERE'S KIBBLE IN THE DISH! BUGGER OFF AND LET ME SLEEP! But the shower...my word! So much booty! So many booties! As is the case with most things we do it was untraditional, so there were no games (seriously, who came up with that crap? I had never heard of any of them until friends of ours were telling me how relieved they were that there weren't any. I mean, who ever heard of bobbing for babies in orange juice? And what the hell is a "diaper relay?" This is what pregnant women want to do with the last celebration in their honor before they become overlooked by baby charm? I don't think so). And I don't understand why showers have always been the domain of women--it's not like there wasn't a man involved getting me into this pickle; he should be a part of the schizznitz too. So there were a lot of men here, there was much wine drunk, and it was good. But despite the true overabundance of taste-treats, there was only one small plate of snicketies for me, and only vicarious wine-consumption.
Which led me to the conclusion that there's a reason you get drunk at your own party, having done so at a great deal of them. It's hard work talking to tons of people! I was spinning around like a top trying to chat with everyone, especially the people who didn't know other guests very well, and it was exhausting. When you're a drunk host you have false stamina, and probably don't care as much about propriety. As it was, I was pretty dazed by the end. Mom tells me there were 25-30 people here...it felt like 250.
Giftwise, little leather booties called "Robeez" (I think) are very popular this year. They're pretty damned cute, and we got three pairs. He's off to a fine start as a shoe-hound which will be pretty unfortunate if he starts asking for little Armani shoes when he's in preschool: "Sorry kid, it's either the shoes or your shots. I know it's going to hurt, but really, those shoes aren't going to get you noticed in the park by the young ladies: they like the rough-and-tumble look of a rogue anyway, I promise."
All the shower loot should also bring home the fact that this gigantic growth in my stomach will manifest soon (very soon, really really soon) and be quite human and have specific needs to be met on a schedule that revolves solely around him. It didn't do that because really: something this enormous is just too overwhelming to conceive of properly (bad pun, sorry. I really didn't realize). But every now and then I have a moment of clarity and see myself with the little nipper (not always ridiculously idealized--the other night I had a vision of two sleepless parents running the shower to make steam for easing the kid's croup. Eek.) and it's quite surprising. We're as ready as we're ever going to be, I guess, which is to say not at all, but it's very exciting. I can't wait to meet this tiny little person, this little individuated being that's made up of our DNA but who will be his own fellow no matter what we do.
The cat seems to think all this nonsense is overrated and wants me to get back to paying sole attention to him. Good Christ, cat! Can't I have a moment's peace? Or are you just warming me up for those sleepless nights? Feh.
Anyway, knowing how this probably doesn't come across as the sappiest epistle about impending motherhood ever written, no thanks to this damned cat, just know that I'm actually pretty moved by this whole affair, and am thrilled about this great upcoming adventure, croup and all.
Welcome, weary traveler.