Shower day… quite literally…
Saturday was the day of the Shower, quite literally in more than one sense. First, it was the date of my first, last and only baby shower and second… it was the day of the rain.
Now, I have to say, props to my peeps for not pulling the famous South African “Ooops, I forgot I’m double booked” or, as we say in the old country, “rain makes me melt and your shindig is just not important enough to risk losing skin” excuse and actually making the trek.
Those of you who said you would and did really rock. And that’s it.
We honestly were so blessed and I hate it when people abuse that word. I’m not one for presents; I’m not one for being the centre of group attention; and the idea, in general, of Saturday happening in my mind was tantamount to asking me to spend the day watching a The Human Centipede marathon. The horror!
But we were blessed indeed. People showing their excitement at your good news really makes you feel like a wanker for complaining about it. Don’t take that the wrong way, this is what I do, nothing’s changing here.
But, for a moment, I felt for myself what I probably should’ve felt for all the other mothers to be at the numerous baby showers I’ve attended throughout my life – a weirdly smug, totally unselfishly happy benevolence…
Looking through the photos of the event the next day, however, left me feeling nothing but ginormous and oddly shaped. I was a tall woman. Now I’m a tall, top heavy, square woman.
I’m like the pregnant Sponge-bob Blobbypants.
And after this baby arrives, I’d better lose 75 kilograms right sharpish or his father is going to leave me for a troupe of midget acrobats.