Yeah, I realize it’s not quite September yet, but that’s when my loving mother scheduled my shower. Yep, back in April, when I was just a little pregnant, my mom called me and said, “September 25th is your shower, so don’t forget.” As if I could.
My mom is a woman possessed. Possessed by the baby shower demon. And she won’t leave me alone about it. I didn’t ask for a shower, she just called me up that day and told me I was having one. So why do I have to be such an integral part of the decision process? Isn’t it just my job to show up, open the gifts, take them home, and pop out a kid in a few months? Shouldn’t that be my only concern?
In a normal family, yes. But we’re not normal, no, not even a little bit. For my bridal shower my dad’s ex-wife made my favors. Yes, I said my dad’s ex-wife (who incidentally also used to baby sit for me and my brother). Lunch was catered. Things were simple. And a shitload of people showed up. The only thing that my mom pestered me about was crocheting dishcloths, which we made for door prizes. Again, why did I have to do that?
This time, my mom is all on her own. She suddenly has no friends and no family, all because Ryan’s mom is sick and unable to do much besides make a guest list (which I’m sure will include at least 100 of her closest friends and every single surviving member of her class from high school). So guess who the burden is on? You got it. Me. The mom to be.
Here are the type of things I get barraged with every time I mistakenly pick up the phone and my mom is on the other end:
We need to decide on a menu! (menu?) We need to have a meeting with Ryan’s mom! (she’s confined to her house, go whenever!) Who’s going to make favors? (uh… favors?) Can Ryan’s aunt and cousin help? (wait, is your phone broken? Well, you’re talking to me on it!) What about those lollipops we saw in the magazine? (Ugly and covered in foam, no thanks) Can your friends help? (I already told you they would!!!) What games are we going to play? (games? THERE WILL BE NO GAMES!)
For the love of GOD! I don’t care! Why are you doing this to me? Why does talking to you result in me wanting to rip my hair out… slowly… follicle by follicle, until my scalp bleeds? Why do I want to gouge out my eyes? What is so hard about ordering a meat tray, salad, and rigatoni from a deli? Why can’t you just buy little teeny potted plants as favors? WHY ARE YOU MAKING THIS SO HARD!
My darling husband, who at one time in his life was a bar and restaurant manager for a place that did catering, offered to cook anything we want. He’s good at it. He wants to help. Why should I have to help? Why should I even know about this shower? I hate surprises, but I’d much rather this be a surprise than have to deal with hearing all this shit every single day.
I know my mom means well and she just wants me to have a great shower, but she’s a fucking pest. I don’t know how to nicely tell her that. Because she does things like this, Ryan has forbidden her from witnessing her grandchild’s delivery. Which is fine with me, because you know what she’d do?
“No, push it this way! C’mon, this kid isn’t going to pop itself out! Rosie (the dog) had an easier time giving birth than you, and she had three puppies! Ryan, help her breathe! No, you’re not doing it right!”
Rosie really is going to have puppies. And my parents keep reminding me that she’s more pregnant than I am (she’ll have them at the end of August). And I keep telling them, “yeah, but she still only weighs 7 pounds, at the most. And I don't hear anyone pestering her about her shower.”
I love my mom. She’s awesome. But sometimes I have the urge to smack her in the face. I guess that’s normal.