In my prenatal class the other night (yes I’m taking prenatal yoga, it’s my childhood yuppie dream come true), while chatting with my fellow pregnant classmates before class started, the topic of registering (i.e. for baby gifts) came up.
Classmate: Are you guys going to register at Toys R Us? It seems kind of lame but that’s really all there is in this town for baby stuff.
Other Classmate: Yeah, I was thinking about it.
Other Classmate: Probably.
Me: I’m not. I mean, if I was registering at all, I probably would, but I’m not registering for anything.
Classmates: …
Me (realising I probably sounded snobbish and deciding to clarify): It’s not that I don’t believe in registering. I think it’s brilliant. It’s just that I’m not having a baby shower.
Classmate: Oh, why not?
Me (even as the words left my lips wishing I could lasso them back to my throat and swallow them, never to be spoken again in their awkwardness): Because nobody would come.
Classmates: (Exclamations ranging in various degrees of pity and sad-for-me-ness.)
Me (again realising I needed to explain further, as I was making myself out to be a sympathy-seeking pity-partier): No, no, it’s not like that. It’s just that I’m not from here originally and I only have, like, two friends, and any baby shower that anybody threw me would be out of pity and people I didn’t even know would come and it would be, like, super awkward. [Not entirely unlike this conversation.]
Quickly and deftly like Catwoman (except two sentences too late) I changed the subject to “It’s a Shame Target Isn’t Officially in Canada Yet; I Would Definitely Register There If I Could,” and the awkwardness was over.
But then class started and instead of channeling my root chakra all I could think about was the awkward conversation.
Here’s the thing: I do not want a baby shower.
I have made everyone I know—relatives, in-laws, coworkers and friends—promise me that they won’t throw me one. In my snootier days, I even vowed that I would not have children until I could afford to buy them yuppie baby crap all on my own without relying on a baby shower for anything. Of course I’m nowhere near as rich as I thought I’d be by the time I got pregnant, but the fact remains: I don’t like parties thrown in my honour. I find them horrendously uncomfortable.
When I was engaged I had two people throw me the most spectacular bridal showers imaginable—they worked so hard and I love them for it—and even though I use many of those generous gifts to this day, I can’t help but recall the guilt I felt knowing those people were obliged to spend money or effort on me—to take time out of their busy and waste it on me.
At the end of the day I perceive all difficult situations through my own lens of experience, which experience is this: I don’t like spending my own spare time or money on other random people out of obligation, so I expect that other people won’t like to spend their spare time or money on me.
You’ve been there. Don’t act all holier-than-thou, claiming never to have been there. We’ve ALL been there: It’s the night of some social function or other. You’ve worked yourself to the bone all day. You even went grocery shopping, the world’s most treacherous chore. You finally got a minute to flop on the couch with your iDevice and chill, when a reminder pops up on your screen: “Reminder 6:00-8:00 p.m. Super Awkward Social Function In Honour Of Someone You Don’t Know/Don’t Like; You’ll Be Expected to Shower and Change Out of Your Stretchy Pants; You’ll Have to Spend Money on a Gift and Wrap it Cuter Than Everyone Else’s; You’ll Probably See Your Husband’s Annoyingly Skinny Ex-Girlfriend There; The Food Will Be Divine But You’ll Be Too Self-Conscious to Eat As Much As You Want; Small Talk is Required; Also You Have a Pimple.”
Seriously? Nobody likes those things. Not you, not me, not anyone.
And, pitiful though it sounds, it’s not a lie when I say I have, like, two friends here. Aside from Kyle’s family and a couple friends from church, I do not know anybody well enough to invite them to a party in my honour.
This is not a sad thing. I LIKE IT THIS WAY. I am antisocial and cranky by nature. I’ve crafted, shaped, molded my life exactly this way because it’s how I function best: with very few emotional investments. I’ve made my anti-social bed and I will gladly lie in it.
So no, I’m not registering at Toys R Us or Buy Buy Baby or Target or Zappos or Amazon.com. Yes, I’ll have to buy my kid’s own crap, but that’s what I signed up for. I’ve had to lower my expectations considerably to stay within our budget (goodbye $1,000 stroller, goodbye 100% organic bamboo sleepwear, goodbye Pottery Barn upholstered glider+ottoman combo), but I’m good with that. It’s amazing what people are selling secondhand these days, and we all know that babies are only babies for a very short time, so most secondhand baby gear is in excellent used condition.
I suspect to normal, socially inclined women I sound mean and heartless but I write this post with the sincerest intentions: please please PLEASE don’t throw me a baby shower.
14 Responses to Every Pity Needs a Party