(If she ‘blinded you with science’, chances are it wasn’t Secondhand SCIENCE. That’s never hurt anyone’s eyes. Much.
This week, the topic is gravity. How does it work, what is it made of, why is it so weird? And what does it have to do with microwave burritos?
Probably nothing. But go see for yourself.)
Yesterday, I attended a baby shower. This was my first — and, if the rest of life goes as planned, my last. I’m not sure I “enjoyed” the experience, exactly. But I did learn a lot.
First, it was a brunch. I don’t do a lot of brunching, personally, but I gather the concept was dreamed up just as an excuse to eat eggs at two in the afternoon. I can get behind that — and I did. Some of the ladies there ordered salads. Amateurs.
“I went in expecting Oshkosk B’Gosh, and instead found Willy Wonka.”
Also, while “baby” is in the name, there wasn’t a lot of talk about the actual baby itself. The event seemed, more than anything, to be a forum for discussions of breastfeeding. For three solid hours, at least half the conversations between the eight people present concerned women’s boobs and what might come out of them. I haven’t heard that much constant chatter about breasts since…
Well. I was in a fraternity. So it’s not like it’s never happened. But it’s been a while. And it never involved spinach omelets.
I also learned that the brunchtime eggs — or salad; I mean, who does that? — are really just a prelude to the main baby shower consumable: sugar. This party had everything — chocolates, cupcakes, regular cake, you name it. I went in expecting Oshkosk B’Gosh, and instead found Willy Wonka.
I think I figured out what all the sweets are for. If the social function of a baby shower is to roundtable all things boob milk, then maybe the practical goal is to dump enough sugar down the pregnant lady’s throat to shoot the baby out the other end.
Unfortunately in this case, the lady had already had the baby a few weeks early. Happily, the baby is fine — and we had a lot of leftover desserts. So everybody’s happy. And full of energy. And possibly diabetic.
How did I wind up in the middle of this maelstrom of maternity? My wife is a longtime friend of the new mother, and we two couples often do things together. Sometimes those are fun and enjoyable things — and sometimes, they’re things that the ladies have picked out. Like ballets. Or recitals. Or holiday chorales.
I know, right? We love our wives, like, a lot. Obviously.
Given these occasional atrocities, the husband and I have made a pact: “no man left behind”. If the wives are attending some artsy something-or-other, and one of us guys gets roped in, then the other will tag along, too. For moral support. And to sneak beer in. Possibly to help plan an escape. Whatever’s necessary.
So when the new dad committed to attending the baby soiree, I got called in, too. And thank goodness. Even together, way at the end of the table, we were awash in a sea of estrogen, breast milk and cream cheese icing.
Some of that was figurative. And some of that was literal. I don’t want to talk about it.
I can’t imagine how one of us alone would have fared. So I’m glad I went — and I did learn a lot about these mysterious and troubling events.
Also, I ate eggs after lunchtime. Which is nice.Permalink | No Comments