Nov
19
2009
Baby showers are among the strangest social rituals ever to be thrust upon womenkind. Our family threw one for David and Amber the other weekend. In the weeks leading up to it, my mother kept calling me with yet another mind-numbingly infantilizing game she’d found with names like “guess that baby food,” “the poopy diaper game” or (save me already) “pin the binky on the baby.” I haven’t been to many baby showers, but my “I’m not a bra-burner!” mother schooled me in advance on the fine art of such nauseating estrogen fests. Apparently the men — assuming there are any — retire to the basement whereupon they will commence drinking beer, playing pool, talking smack and watching the Bengals on my brother’s 60-inch flat screen HDTV while the women gush over hegemonic genderizing gifts and play ridiculous shower games all in the guise of some universally shared matriarchal longing. Luckily, I claimed the role of photographer, thus sparing me from most of baby shower hell.
Baby Chase has received enough shoes to rival any well-dressed woman and David and Amber’s registry has now been officially exhausted. But nothing beats the bestest gift of all, compliments of yours truly and Cafepress.
