One of these things is not like the other

Oh, the baby shower.

The mothers and the mothers-in-law.

The crust-less cucumber sandwiches, the macaroni salads, the carrot sticks, the fat-free dressing, the cheese cubes, the cheese-less pizza squares, the cream cheese tortilla wraps, the pretzels, the smoked salmon, the jelly beans, the little iced cakes, the rice krispie squares, the apple juice, the caffeine-free tea.


The pastel-coloured everything.

The playschool games, the oohs, the awwws, the pictures, the cameras, the tales, the stories, the registries, the balloons.

‘Have-you-picked-a-name-have-you-painted-the-nursery-have-you-chosen-godparents-have-you-picked-a-hospital-how-are-you-feeling-how’s-hubby-feeling-are-you-excited-are-you-have-you-will-you-do-you?

The pervasive sense you have been irrevocably transported into a Jane Austen novel and are struggling, fighting desperately to come up for air.

The reams of tissue paper, wrapping paper, ribbon, streamers, discarded envelopes and gift bags. The diapers, the 15 receiving blankets. The booties, the bonnets, the baskets. The cribs, the cradles, the carriages, the clothes.

Fake smiles, fake laughs, weak hugs, kissed cheeks, tears with questionable causes.

The deep breath, the promises, the lies, the goodbyes.

The keys, the car, the drive home. The knowledge of one of many.