Out here in the sticks, we do not have access to highspeed internet. Which means I spend a lot of time in front of my Mac, staring at the screen, waiting while my dial-up connection tries to work like an old plough horse on a modern farm. It can be frustrating, especially when I am trying to download something, but for the most part, I don’t mind. It gives me the excuse to avoid the real world. I have been known to connect to the internet and then walk away to go watch telly, just so I won’t be bothered by well, family and friends. Yes, I know, dear internet, at my rate it is a miracle I have any of either still willing to call.
But in my defense, there is only so much well wishing, and enquiring about our marriage that a redneck mommy can stand. So to all you who are curious: My hubs and I are fine. He still likes working out in the field, and we are still having sex. No, the loss of angel boy isn’t tearing us apart, and yes, we have spoke to a counselor. And NO, I do not need any more damn company. NO, I’m sorry, this week I will be too busy to watch your brats kids. Are you getting my point, dear internet?
But as you know, ever-expanding, cookie munching, so-pregnant-it-is funny/scary sister is due to pop in a week. Which means any day. As her birthing partner, I am now tied to the phone like a child’s tongue to a frozen goal post in the dead of our good ole Canadian winter. Both are a lot of fun.
Now, every time the phone rings, I am required to make a mad dash to it, to see, if in fact, I will become a new auntie to yet another small child whose bottom I will invariably, at one point or another, wipe. Seems to be my destiny these days.
So when the phone rang, and caller i.d. (really the world’s greatest invention next to penicillin, washing machines and the wheel) showed my mother’s cell phone, I had to pick it up. Preggo might have popped! Imagine my dismay when I find Preggo, has in fact, NOT popped. No, mom just wanted to know if hubs was working, how my marriage was going, have I had sex recently, have I seen a counselor and did I survive puppy/child sitting. Again. Because apparently, she didn’t believe my answers from two days before. But dear mother had a new twist.
I knew I shouldn’t have answered the phone. It seems, as older sister, and birthing coach it is my required duty to throw Preggo a baby shower. So start planning, I was told, because mom and sister expect a good one. Perhaps, I could go on the net to find some fun… games.
OH MY EVER LOVING GOD, they expect games. Nightmares of my baby shower have flooded back. Damn, it took nine years to forget them. F%#k. I remember blind folds, cotton balls, oven mitts and a wooden spoon. I remember cutesy word puzzles and diapering dollies with mustard stained tissues. I distinctly remember wishing I could hide in the pantry. And yearning for booze. Why, oh why, must I do this again? What did I do, to be punished in this manner?
How inappropriate would it be to throw sis a party, have everyone oooh and aaaah over the rat baby, and watch her open gifts like I would watch a football game. With a beer in one hand and a chip in the other. Think of the commentary I could provide as she moved on from one gift to the next. Another f*@king rattle? Really people. A diaper genie, now there is a present a mom can use. It could be fun.
The reality is I will be up to my newly pierced nose in blue or pink streamers, handing out napkins for cucumber sandwiches that I will have to make, while explaining the rules to whatever cutesy games my mother has thought of. This time around though, screw it. No hiding in the pantry for me. I promise you dear internet, there will be booze.
At least in my cup, which will be kept far away from nursing mommy and new grandma. (Who has a nose like a bloodhound.)
