I came back this afternoon from N's beautiful baby shower (a champagne brunch that turned into lunch), dazzled by the experience of so many women friends pouring love all over a baby whom we haven't even met yet, and the celebration of our bloomingly pregnant friend, who has one son and is expecting her second eight weeks from now. There was a hullaballoo of chatting and cheerfulness - the unique sound of women laughing and clinking champagne glasses and cooing over pint-sized baby jumpers and onesies.
The baby shower is a tradition that has suffered something of an identity crisis in recent years, stumbling over its awkward past (mired in crass, anachronistic and rather insensitive 'games' that in no way honour the sacredness of childbirth and motherhood) and, at the same time, getting caught up in too much self-reflection and seriousness (in the form of very dour 'Blessingway' ceremonies that force a sometimes discordant element of Navajo/Pagan rite into what should be a fun, celebratory party).
Where do I stand on these matters? Somewhere in the middle. A baby shower should honour the enormous transformation that is pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood, without getting sombre or silly. And indeed, there should be plenty of presents (though, I would argue -- some to-die-for gifts for the mother herself, not just the ever-pragmatic white baby vests and jars of bum cream).
This shower was wonderful, and our self-named 'pregnant fairy' was celebrated as a pregnant goddess for the day. And rightly so. All love and blessings to you, my precious friend, N.
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