THE BABY SHOWER

   Dainty candles, packages tied in blue and pink, bootie-adorned centerpieces.  Marie’s baby shower was in full swing.  Not being a social butterfly, I made an A-line for the magazines on the coffee table.

“How are you-fine-how are you-fine-how are you-fine.”  Only three “How are you-fine’s” to cross the whole room.  Not bad.

My suggestion had been to set up a drive-up table out by the mailbox at which people could drop off their gifts and be presented with a to-go cup and plate.  Thank you cards would follow in the mail.  We could even hand out sheets listing who among the party-goers were “fine” for those who always need to know.  Total efficiency.

Pam had looked at her shoes quietly.  Pattie had cleared her throat and asked me to just bring a plate of sandwiches and come a little early.  She and Pam would take are of the other details.

And here was the result – tradition.

“We’re going to break a tradition!”  Pattie said rising.  “None of our usual silly games.”  This almost made me stop reading the Woman’s Day I’d buried myself behind.  “Since this is Marie’s first and since everyone loves giving advice…Oh, Lois, pass out those pencils and some paper…ah, write down TEN things she’ll need to know.  Now not stuff in books.  She’s read those.  Something from your own personal experience.”

“How about advice from the Bible?” someone wanted to know.

“Oh, well, ah…”

“That’s a book,” Pam was quick to note.  “But let’s say since it is so vital to use one from it and the rest, make em stuff your kids taught you.”

Now we’ll read these after the refreshments and gifts and all so just mingle and take your time,” Pattie said with a gesture toward the table.

I looked at Marie. Hair flawless, clothes pressed, fingernails perfect.  Smiling, hopeful.  Poor, poor Marie.

Number One:  Take all your make-up, all your favorite clothes, all your good furniture and make a bond fire out of it.  They’ll be destroyed anyhow during the preschool years.  This way at least you won’t resent your children for doing it.

A lady next to me confided, “I’m going to say how my kids have taught me to appreciate the little things, like nature.”

Having never thought of nature as a ‘little thing’, I offered, “You mean things IN nature.  Like bugs, fleas, what?”

Her cheery smile turned itself upside down.  “Well, ah, no.  I mean…excuse me.”  She huffed away to another chair to try her suggestion on someone more cordial.

Number Two:  Get new carpeting, wall paper, furniture – all the color of ketchup mixed with chocolate.  This is the color it will end up anyway.  Saves lots of scrubbing.

“Era, since you’re our resident writer we’re going to let you set the tone and go first.”

“Okay with me.  Bye.”

“No, no.  I mean read your advice first.”  I had planned to mail it to the poor girl to cheer her up in postpartum with a little note:  “You think you’re depressed now—Just wait!”

Number Three:  Go ahead and say everything you’ll ever need to say to your husband.  You won’t have a chance to once baby begins to talk.  You also won’t have the energy.  Don’t forget the words, “Goodbye.  See you in twenty years.”

Another unfamiliar face wants to know, “Oh so you’re a writer?  Who do you write for?”

“Anyone who’ll publish me.  Mostly no one.”  She assures me that I must be a writer of incredible talent.  “What makes you say that?  Have you ever read my work?”  Her face reddens as I walk away.  The night is young and I’ve only insulted one-third of the guests.  I’m beginning to understand why I was never elected most popular in high school.

Number Four:  Pray all the prayers you can come up with QUICK.  Use whole sentences.  Get all the way to Amen.

This is great advice.  Only this morning my prayer time went as follows:

“Dear Lord – Don’t you dare pour that milk in your plate.  I need your strength today – yes, of course you may please go to the bathroom!  I ask you to help me have patience.  We don’t put raisins in our ears but in our mouth – to love these kids as you would have me to – share that!  There’s enough for an army.  And Lord, energy too.  You’re going to be late if you don’t stop fooling around.  Help me to teach them Your wisdom.  I’ll read it to you once you have on your shoes.  I forgot what I was saying, Lord.  Absolutely not!  Amen.”

Number Five:  Wear a face mask after baby can jerk its head around.  I had so many busted lips that the neighbors thought my husband was beating me.  Also, army boots and other protective clothing guard against biting.

Lois came up chattering:  I’m gonna tell how I’ve learned to tie the prettiest bows in my Christina’s hair!”

“Did she teach you?” I wanted to know.  She’s five.

“Of course not.  I learned BECAUSE of her.”

“The instructions are:  What your KIDS have taught YOU or what you’ve learned from them.”

“Don’t be so literal.”  The evening’s wearing on and I still have one more hostess to upset.  “You know, you’re a hostess.  Have you been mingling?”

“Lois, if I mingle any more, everyone is taking their gifts and leaving.

“The study is down the hall.”

Number Six:  Regarding monetary things:  YOUR two most valued possessions are a dust buster and a year’s supply of Percocet.  For THEM, after they’ve learned to talk, coach them to say, “Trust Fund” to grandma/grandpa when they want to know what to get for birthdays and Christmas.

Suggestions came more quickly sitting in this quiet place.  I scrawled away to my heart’s content.

Number Seven:  Choose a pediatrician who believes in narcotics.  And will prescribe them for you.  I chose a ‘whole earth type who has me feed them wheat germ for measles and tofu for ear infections.  Though the screaming tempts me to go incognito to a liquor store for something stronger.

Marie breezes into the den.  “You girls are so dear to do all this for me.”  She hugs me as best she can with her protrusion.

“I only made the sandwiches.  The kids helped.  I made them wash their hands.  They’d been playing with the dog and I made them blow their nose and promise not to let any buggers drop in the egg salad.  Marie, you look ill.  Still having morning sickness?”  The night is almost gone and I’ve disgusted the guest of honor  I had planned to tell her how Jenny wanted to know did that mean just the gooey buggers?  She had thought the hard ones would be okay.  I felt Marie needed to be more prepared than they prepare you in those prepared childbirth classes.

Number Eight:  When leaving a room, always place your tea glass to a height not less than eight feet.  Unless you like buggers floating on top.

I walked into the elegantly decorated dining room.  Marie was gulping down water from a paper cup adored with rattles and pacifiers.  She eyed me helping my plate with mountains of everything – except the egg salad sandwiches.

Number Nine:  NEVER say, “My child will never…fill in the blank here.  Or I will never be seen looking like…  Or one thing a child of mine will never do is…  I’m convinced that God keeps a computerized listing of these and lets you remember these vows vividly the moment your child IS seen in public like that.  Or DOES watch that TV show.  Or you DO serve that for breakfast.  Repeatedly.  You learn to sympathize instead of condemn.

Pattie clapped her hands loudly.  “Ladies, it’s time.  Now Marie, you listen up.  Era, you begin.”

I gaze out to the audience which I have insulted upset and disgusted all evening.  They glare back at me.  I decide to skip down to the one we’re all allowed from the bible.

Number Ten:  “Teach them to love the Lord thy God with all their heart, and with all their soul and with all their might.  Marie, this is my prayer for my own children and my prayer for yours.”  A hush fell, eyes moistened, smiles conveyed forgiveness.

“But Era, don’t you have some others, your own?”

“No, my mind’s a blank,” I say crumpling the sheet in my hand.  “If you’ll excuse me,” I smile toward Marie, “I have a hankering for some egg salad sandwiches.”