Listen up y’all. There’s a new trend out there called a “Baby Sprinkle” and we need to put a stop to it.
“Baby Sprinkles” are low-key versions of baby showers. They’re for moms who don’t want a fuss made over them at baby time.
I’m sorry, WHAT?
You’re about to spend the rest of your life carrying, feeding, coddling, worrying, paying, cleaning, chasing, yelling, coaching and mentoring – all while in a perpetual state of exhaustion – and you “don’t want a fuss made” over you?
For obvious reasons, this cannot horrifying trend cannot continue. I mean, I don’t consider myself high maintenance (which probably means I’m a 27 on a scale of 1-10), but I WILL have this one thing. I will cling to the extravagant baby shower tradition like George Clooney clung to the Andrea Gail in The Perfect Storm. I am done having children but I will launch this crusade for all those who come after me. You’re welcome.
Because here’s the thing: Motherhood is wonderful and amazing and life-changing. It’s the best thing you’ll ever do, but it’s also the hardest thing you’ll ever do. You will sacrifice your body, sleep, your career, your social life, your freedom, your free time, and it will all be worth it. But it ain’t easy.
At times you will feel ambivalent towards motherhood and maybe towards your own children. Your mental health might suffer and the dynamics of your relationship will change. Your childless friends may desert you. Your sparkly Saturday night tops will be replaced by a muffin top, and a closet full of sensible, washable fabrics. One day, you’ll open your mouth and your mother will come out. Your conversations will revolve around RESPs, affordable child-care, organic vegetables and sleep training. You’ll lie awake thinking about placenta smoothies, the sex offender registry, gender-neutral parenting and whether or not you properly installed that car seat and changed the batteries on the basement smoke alarm last spring.
And you’ll love every minute. Okay, you’ll love most of the minutes.
I had one baby shower, for my first daughter, and it was a lovely affair. Because we adopted, my friends and family were able to meet my little girl at the party, which made it extra special. But had I truly known what was in store for me, I would have politely requested we swap the sparkling water for bottle service and my living room for Las Vegas.
Brunch, balloons and non-alcoholic punch are lovely, but ladies, what we really deserve is a Vanity Fair Oscar party level celebration. I’m talking lobster rolls (in the shape of babies, if you must), Kobe beef and Crystal (or whatever the rappers are drinking these days.) I’m talking red carpet, photo booth, open bar, free makeup touch-ups, champagne in the ladies room and canoodling with Brad Pitt in a dark corner. What? He’s single now!
If it were me, I would ride in on an elephant wearing Vera Wang (me, not the elephant) and the same veil Beyonce wore for her latest pregnancy announcement, because I look best when cloaked in something gauzy. Male models would lead me to my perch where I would proceed to open hordes of gifts carefully chosen by me from my Tiffany/Sephora/Michael Kors/Veuve Cliquot registry. Another diamond solitaire and a lifetime supply of La Mer? You shouldn’t have! Oprah will record the details of each gift in exchange for an exclusive post-party interview on Super Soul Sunday.
After the gifts have been opened, we will dance the night away (80s tunes only, maybe a little 90s, definitely no techno), stopping only to enjoy a midnight sushi and cupcake buffet.
Are my demands simple? Hell no. But neither is motherhood. So enough with this low-maintenance, don’t make a fuss nonsense. Girlfriend, you deserve that fuss because from the moment that child arrives, nothing is about you anymore. This will be the wildest ride of your life and I, I mean you, should be sent off in style. There’s a good chance you won’t see your friends for another 18 years so pull them close and celebrate. Be as high maintenance as you want to be. Live it up and regret nothing. I support you one hundred percent.
