Do you ever get tired of reading the same damn thing every “holiday?”

Yeah, neither do I.

I enjoy it. In fact, I enjoy it so much I’ve taken time out of my “busy mommy life(!)” (I just gagged) to read every single blog post and article ever written near, on or about Mother’s Day. And I’ve summarized them in two sentences or less.

I didn’t actually do that.

I’m sure I missed one or two.

I’ve also added highly-opinionated, useless commentary.

Consider this my gift to you.

What can I say? I’m a giver. I give. I gave on my first try.

So here it is…All Mother’s Day blog posts ever written summarized in 2 sentences or less, complete with useless commentary and occasional f-bombs.

The “What moms really want on Mother’s Day” post

Summary: We don’t want brunch and mimosas and flowers and spa days. We want you to clean the house and toilets and cook while we sleep.

Only we don’t actually just want this on Mother’s Day, we want it every fucking day, but we feel like you owe it to us on Mother’s Day so we feel compelled to ask. Also, who the hell came up with the “we don’t want brunch and spas” nonsense? I want brunch. I love brunch. I also love spas. I used to love mimosas. I used to really, really love mimosas. Also whiskey.

Do people get whiskey on Mother’s Day? Why do we have to drink these girly drinks? Why can’t we drink some freaking Maker’s Mark?

Um. Let’s move on.

The overly sentimental reflection on motherhood post; AKA the “they grow up so fast” post

Summary: They grow up so fast.

Except when they’re three. Three takes forever. Three-year-olds are assholes. You keep telling me they grow up fast but my 3-year-old IS STILL THREE so what’s up with that, Einstein?

The “What if Mother’s Day cards told the truth?” post

Summary: Tongue-in-cheek “honest” depictions of motherhood so we all feel better about the fact that we suck.

Wait. I wrote one of those for Parenting magazine last year. If you can make it past the pop-up Betty Crocker ads, you can read them. Enjoy the clip art. That shit’s classic.

The “I feel guilty for being a crap mother so stop celebrating me” post

Summary: See title.

Oh damn I wrote one of those too. I’m such a cliché. I’m a cliché! Although that was one of the favorite things I’ve ever written and it’s Brain, Child (freaking excellent magazine) so that post doesn’t count, damn it.

I’m not a cliché!

I’m a unique and intricate snowflake!

Damn it.

cute family photo in obligatory Mother’s Day post

The “My mom sucked so I hate Mother’s Day” post

Summary: I had a shit mom and therefore the rest of the world should not celebrate moms ever because it hurts my feelings.

Right. Because that makes sense. (Didn’t write one of those. My mom is the best mom in the world.)

Ah ha! The “my mom is the best mom in the world post.”

No she’s not. My mom is. Fuck off.

The “I don’t have kids and I’m sick of the glorification of motherhood” post

Summary: I’m “childfree” so I think we shouldn’t celebrate people who aren’t.

Because that also makes sense.

The Call-to-Arms/Kumbaya/“let’s all stop judging each other” post

Summary: I make my choices and you make your choices and because it makes me sound like a good, enlightened human I’m going to pretend like I don’t judge you for not making the same choices I’ve made.

Um, obviously I think my choices are better. THAT’S WHY I MADE THEM. And if I see some woman feeding a baby a bottle with juice in it, I’m gonna judge the hell out of her. Of course I am. That’s a stupid fucking thing to do. However, if that woman came up to me at the park, I would be good and decent and respectful because everybody’s on their own damn path and it’s none of my business what other humans do with their kids.

The problem is not that people judge. The problem is that people are dicks.

The humble-brag Mother’s Day gift post

Summary: My husband is significantly better than yours and we have lots of money. That’s really all I wanted to say.

Yes, I know this already because we’re friends on Facebook. (Unfollow! Restricted acquaintance! (Only helpful thing Facebook has done in 5 years.))

The “you’re a good mom/I’m a good mom/we’re all good moms” post

Summary: Stay-at-home? Good for you. Work? Great. Sit on your ass all day and play video games while smoking cigarettes and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon? Go team! We support you!

No we don’t. We don’t really support you. We just pretend we do because it’s Mother’s Day.

(Also, has it ever occurred to any of these people writing the “You’re a stay-at-home mom and you’re doing a good job” or “You work out of the home and we salute you” posts that their target audience isn’t seeking the approval of a bunch of internet strangers? I mean, do you ever see posts congratulating fathers for staying home or working out of the home, validating their decisions and telling them “Everything will be okay, little one, we support you. YOU ARE OKAY.”

No. Because if a man stays home he’s a loving and devoted, miraculous father!

And if he works out of the home he’s a loving and devoted, miraculous father!

Also, the decisions of mothers are always held up for public scrutiny and analysis — Oh you bastard patriarchy. Nobody asked you. Stop telling me how to do human.)

Wow. That escalated quickly.

No but seriously it seems like the world sees mothers as bunch of needy, lost humans, all yelling in unison: “Somebody tell me I’m okay! Am I okay!?”

Somebody hold my hand and tell me I’m okay!

You’re not okay.

Alright fine. You’re okay.

(why can’t I ever just stay on topic? is it a disease?)

Which brings us to the “Oh mothers you’re so amazing and you’re totally okay and rocking it daily, cradling the future of humanity in your tender arms, pulling the lost souls of humanity into your warm bosom, building America through virtue and devotion and strength and stuff, WE THANK YOU.”

Oh yeah. I totally do that. I’m a builder.

Now leave me alone so I can eat some eggs benedict and get a fucking massage.

Shit only happens once a year, ya know.

Have fun, ladies. Make it a good one.

You know I support you.

happy Mother’s Day photo! alright. this is pretty fucking sweet.

I sure love it when a “new study” hits the internet, particularly if it relates to some super-heated parenting topic. It’s just so fun. All of a sudden, all the people have new “evidence” to sling at the “other side.”

All the humans now have “irrefutable proof” that they were, after all, right as fuck and you were, absolutely 100% (as they always suspected!) WRONG. So they shall post it on Facebook with a barely perceptible shrug and smile, just so damn happy to have this “new science” validating their opinions.

No worries if it refutes 20 years of prior research. No worries if it’s profoundly biased and/or funded by a company with a vested interest in the outcome. No worries if it’s flawed in its research methodology or put together by high schoolers on mushrooms.

In fact, there’s no need to read any of the actual study! All you gotta do is read the article in the Huffington Post written by some asshat with as much relevant expertise as my toddler, summarizing the study and paraphrasing the “science” they don’t actually understand (or trying to, while remaining SEO effective, of course).

Forget they’re writing for a damn media source with a financial interest in sensationalism and the “latest trends,” (so they can trap new parents on Babycenter who are simply fascinated by this “new research”). And forget the emphasis on keywords and polarizing, extremist titles that will increase Google hits and traffic, translating into PURE CASH for the website. I mean, there’s nothing like a bunch of well-meaning parents to feed “latest studies” to by the spoonful.

Nothing sells like: “New Study Shows Breastfeeding is Over-rated” or “Research proves that homebirth kills” or “Study concludes pacifiers stunt emotional development.”

Here’s what they’re actually selling us:  You want to be “in the know?” You want to remain on the cutting edge of informed parenting? All you gotta do is read our 3^rd-party interpretation of a “study” you’ve never glanced at, avoid  critical thinking at all costs and use what you read as “irrefutable evidence” to post all over Facebook, Pin, Tweet and email. This weekend, regurgitate at playdates. And then, bask in the glory of your rightness. All you need is a link, homie!

I mean how could you argue it? It’s science! It’s data! It’s REAL.

Obviously. There’s acronyms and shit.

Look, internet, unless you’re going to read the actual study, examine who funded the bastard, research the methodology (and have the ability to assess it in the first place), study what other experts in the field have to say about its outcomes, assess where this study fits into the larger picture (what else has been said over the years?)…I don’t give a flying rat’s ass about your “new study.”

Basically, one study means jack shit, even if it does validate your side of every flame war you’ve engaged in during the last 5 years.

One study is ONE MOTHERFUCKING STUDY.

You gotta look at overall flows, dude. You gotta look for patterns, for trends, for recurring information. I’m not a scientist. I get confused by words like “force” or “planet.”

My geology professor hired me in his paleomagnetic research lab because I got the highest grade in his survey course. I worked for him for a year or so while he tried desperately to explain to me 3-dimensional magnetic properties of rock (or some shit) – ultimately mumbling one day “Um I’m not sure science is your thing.”

Yeah, it’s not.

Neither is math. BUT I DIGRESS.

The point is that even a moron like me knows that science doesn’t work in giant, sensational sweeping movements, particularly if it involves lots and lots of humans. It’s not ALL GOING TO CHANGE because A study was published.

In other words, we’re getting played, people. They play on our desire to do right by our kids. They play on our devotion and love and profound fear of fucking up our offspring.

But you know what? These “new studies” may mean something significant within the field, but they are almost wholly irrelevant when it comes to my immediate, on-the-ground parenting decisions. They are contributing information to the discipline. They are lending new insights. They are donating to a body of research from which scholars can, over time, pull accumulated information that may actually inform my parenting.

But until then, it’s just “Oh good, another study I can completely ignore.”

And watch the shit-slinging begin.

Calm down, internet, it’s just one study.

SETTLE DOWN ASSHOLE.

Things are the same as yesterday.

in case you missed it the first time

Look, I know how it goes. You pee on that stick and you’re all “OMG I’m having a baby!?” but you can’t tell anybody because the obligatory 12 weeks, so you go to the one place you can get excited and talk safely (OR SO YOU THINK)…

BabyCenter.

You log on, create some cryptic name for yourself, find your “Birth Club” and start reading. You think you’ll find some like-minded women in the same stage of pregnancy as you and you can all commiserate and stuff.

But all you see are acronyms. Lots and lots of acronyms. What the fuck do DD, DS, BFP and FTM mean?

Who are these people? Do all mothers speak in acronyms? Why are they all using acronyms? HOW COME I’M THE ONLY ONE NOT USING ACRONYMS?

After reading a few posts and having no clue what the hell they’re saying, you sheepishly Google “BabyCenter acronyms” hoping nobody sees and praying to God there’s some sort of guidebook for this new world. I mean you’ve only been pregnant for 47 minutes and you’re already incapable of joining the mother crew?

It ain’t looking good.

Rest easy, friend. As a woman presently enjoying her 4^th child’s limbs flailing against her bladder, I’m here to tell you in absolutely no uncertain terms that YOU ARE NOT ALONE and no, despite appearances, mothers are not some sort of weird gang wherein language is reduced to communication-via-acronyms, as if baby-in-womb immediately results in the inability to write words out completely.

DD is “dear daughter” and DS is “dear son” and DH is yep, you guessed it, dear husband. And yes, I’m with you. Why the hell do I have to add “dear” to the beginning of my kids’ titles? Isn’t that sort of contained in the word “son” or “daughter?” I mean it’s my SON OR DAUGHTER. Sons and daughters tend to be “dear” to their mothers. Usually. For at least a couple hours a day.

Husbands, on the other hand, are another story and I’m still confused about what sort of twisted 1950s throw-back decided all husbands have to be referred to as “dears.” Perhaps they’ve never actually had a husband, or cohabitated with another human at all.

But I digress. FTM is “first time mom,” which basically means certain non-FTMs will tell you all the things you don’t know and will never know until you’ve reached the pinnacle of motherhood (as they have). It’s also a flag to signal to the douchebag judgmental mothers “I’m new here. Please don’t attack me for my question.” (Edit: Also, FTM means “female-to-male” and, on this blog, “Fuck the Man.” Good times.)

Incidentally, we don’t all know things you don’t. In fact, some of us admit to not knowing shit and even, perhaps, knowing less with each child. Perhaps we have a little more experience with not knowing shit, but meaningful, universal parental advice? Yeah, for some of us that died a little more with each baby, along with the stamina of our pelvic floors.

I mean I’ve been a mother for nearly 13 years and all I have to offer is that I think the excessive use of acronyms should be classified as some sort of disease, particularly when it’s used to turn regular words into cute words.

The worst acronym is BFP. “Big fat positive.” Oh god help me. Just say “positive pregnancy test” and move on.

Maybe I’m just a bitter skeptic.

No, for sure I’m a bitter skeptic. And if you’re still reading, you might be one too.

So anyway you read the acronym list and you’re “in” and stuff but now that you know what people are saying, you’re actually more terrified than you were before. It turns out that access to the content of these posts is actually WAY WORSE than the ignorance you previously faced.

You read things like “Hey, FTM here. I just got my BFP and I’m wondering…is it possible to get pregnant from a blow job?”

You read it like 7 times, lest your eyes deceive you. You tell yourself you’re making it up. It’s a joke. Somebody’s joking. THIS MUST BE A JOKE.

But then the next post is titled “Am I pregnant?” and you’re like “Well hmmmm, I fear I may not be the correct person to answer such a question, particularly since I’m not a motherfucking pregnancy test.”

Who answers the question “Am I pregnant?” by logging on to an online forum? In other words, a place 100% unable to provide a reliable answer, particularly when a reliable answer is available for a few bucks at the local grocery store?

And then you start to wonder if perhaps you’ve entered some strange twilight zone in which all the people are insane, and the ones who aren’t insane post things like “Abortion is MURDER” and then wonder why they get so much “backlash for sharing their opinions.”

Wait. Maybe they’re insane too.

You read on, sure you’ll find your people. Sure you’ll find people who are just kind of regular ol’ humans who just found out they’re pregnant but instead you find people asking about baking soda and urine to determine the sex of their baby (at 5 weeks pregnant). You decide to give it a break and try another day, for the good of your own mental well-being.

A couple weeks later you wonder when you might feel your baby move. You log on and read this: “I felt my baby move at 6 weeks. It’s all a matter of how in-tune you are with your body. I do yoga so I’m sure that’s how I felt it.”

And you’re like “What the fuck is wrong with this broad? You moron your “baby” is like the size of a goddamn pea – and it has no limbs yet – but rather than own the fact that logic has clearly vacated your brain, you’ve somehow managed to turn this around to look like a deficiency on MY PART. (You know, because I’m so out of touch with my body I can’t feel the flutters of practically nothing.)

Look, FTM, all I really want to say is that you aren’t alone. BabyCenter and Pinterest and shit, they’re fun, I like them okay sometimes, but I assure you you’re not the only one who reads words like “I haven’t yet committed to a nursery theme” and feels a strange sense of existential angst. There’s nothing wrong with you because your “nursery” is an office you were supposed to deal with a year ago, or a corner in your bedroom, or a corner in your bedroom of your parents’ house. There’s nothing wrong with you because your “nursery theme” is the stuff your sister gave you, or you look at that empty bedroom and realize you have absolutely no taste. None. No decorative style/ability/decorative talent up in here. So basically you buy stuff and put it in the room and hope for the best.

There’s nothing wrong with you because you’ve gained 36 pounds at 29 weeks and the BabyCenter humans are all “I’ve gained 12 pounds and I’m 38 weeks and I just feel AWFUL!”

You’re not the only one who reads posts about “still satisfying my man even when I’m pregnant” with an eye-roll and mumble “Satisfy my man? Huh? He’s lucky he gets it once a month. I’m creating new life, piss on myself when I laugh and have a baby pressing against my cervical wall and I waddle – WHAT THE HELL DO I CARE IF MY “MAN” IS GETTING HIS ROCKS OFF?”

There’s nothing wrong with BabyCenter.  That’s not true. There’s a shit-ton wrong with BabyCenter, but of not everybody there is psycho. And it’s damn entertaining. I still go on it sometimes, for funsies, to watch the drama, to read things like “HELP ME! I can’t find a perfect GOING HOME OUTFIT!!!!” and enjoy it for what it is while being okay with the fact that my baby’s “going home outfit” is not the central focus of my day, nor will it ever be, because I just don’t care that much about things like that. Yeah, when I had hospital births it was fun, but it was never life-changing. So few of these things are ever actually life-changing: The crib, the diaper bag, the nursery theme, the carseat system thing.

For a long time I felt like a freak because the only damn thing that really mattered to me was the baby, and possibly the fact that it was in my belly and needed to exit. I didn’t get excited about cupcakes or baby sprinkles or gender reveals or cute baby announcements (have yet to send those bastards out) and I was sure I was defective somehow. I’m a subpar homemaker with rooms that don’t match and the idea of “coordinating” things makes my stomach hurt.

But truthfully the only think I’ve really learned over the past 13 years is that THE ONLY DAMN THING THAT MATTERS IS THE BABY.

It’s the only part that’s life-changing at all. The rest can be fun, but it’s superfluous, and it’s okay not to care and in fact, many of us don’t.

So yeah, you may feel like the silent lurking freak on BabyCenter, but you are not alone. There’s a shitload of us.

Just wanted to let you know.

Um, my baby’s “nursery.” It’s next to my dresser. Inside is Georgia’s doll and pillow. Tied to the leg is our dog’s leash, because he chews shit at night if he’s not tethered. Pin that shit, baby!

There are times to be healthy.

Halloween is not one of those fucking times.

This is not the time for banana “treats” or berries in cute formations or gluten-free oganic bread in the shape of bats.

Popcorn balls are questionable, people.

Yeah. I said it.

This is the time for high fructose corn syrup.

This is the time for every and all other forms of processed sugar.

This is the time for preservatives. And if you can handle it, this is even the time for Red Dye #40.

This is the time to let your kids swim in the shit you look down on others for feeding their poor kids, who will surely end up obese, depressed, generally weird and probably not that bright. (I mean what chance did they have with such a lack of nourishment?)

I get it. You care about your kid. You don’t want him exposed to the deadly chemicals and additives and non-food “food” substances we all know are killing people, ruining our environment and funneling money into corporations with the morality of that “pastor” who wants to punch kids for acting gay.

Yes. I know. Even though it’s only one day out of 365, you’re such a diligent parent you need 365 out of 365 of good eating and thoughtful consumption.

You know what? FUCK THOUGHTFUL CONSUMPTION.

It’s Halloween.

All people need to let loose sometimes. All people need to get all extreme and radical and shit, sometimes.

Do you really want to raise the person who’s all “Yeah, sorry. I can’t have a shot of tequila on my 21^st birthday because hard liquor is excessive.”

Do you really want the daughter who won’t eat the triple-cream brie with her friends, even though it’s a bi-annual red-wine-and-bread-and-cheese event with her girlfriends?

Do you REALLY want the son who asks 97 questions of the poor waitress about every ingredient in the tacos (checking for GMOs, duh) and you’re all DUDE WE’RE AT A FUCKING TACO TRUCK but he’s all “doesn’t matter. I need 365 days of good.”

Do you really want the kid who refuses to do the keg stand?

Okay maybe that was a poor example.

Do you want the kid who only orders salads with dressing on the side no matter WHAT event is on the fucking line, even if it’s an anniversary or holiday party or a damn baby shower and the pregnant woman’s all “But I weigh the same as a small house” and your kid’s all “Yes, but I’m unwavering in my need for health. I need 365. Somebody else can have my cake.”

Nah. You don’t want that kid. You want the kid that knows what’s up. You want the kid that’s all “Oh yeah, ladies, I’m gonna regret this tomorrow but it’s my birthday and we haven’t seen each other in 2 years, SO POUR ME ANOTHER ONE.”

You want the son who’s like “Honey, I’ll be home in the morning cause it’s so-and-so’s bachelor party and I’ll probably have like 2 cases of beer and regret all life tomorrow.”

You want the kid who can live it up, eat it up, party it up when the time arises. A little flexible. A little wild. A little “God damn you people and your Cambozola and baguette. Yeah, I’ll have more.”

You want the kid who isn’t the one always doing the right thing, don’t you? I mean those people make us all want to die.

The mom whose critical eye makes mothers like me squirm. “Why did I grab the plastic rattle on this playdate? Why didn’t I choose the Amish wood one? Oh god help me!”

The mom whose kid is ALWAYS clean and the dad who NEVER feeds questionable foods and looks at you like “I’m struggling to understand your excessive deficiencies as a parent and human.”

The parents who are like “Yeah, sorry. Johnny can’t have a cupcake because we don’t eat food like that.” And you’re like “It’s a birthday party and Johnny is 6 and literally every other kid is having one…”

And then you just hope Johnny doesn’t end up wounding kittens.

I’m kidding. But seriously, you don’t want to grow the human who is just SO DAMN CONTROLLED AND GOOD AND RIGHT she can’t LIVE. Get wild. Live on the fucking edge. Make some mistakes. Regret some decisions. Roll with the day, moment, even if it’s not that bright.

Eat a pillowcase full of Halloween candy, because it’s Halloween, and it’s fun.

Irresponsible. Irrational. Downright fucking stupid.

This is the time for that.

Yeah, I said it: Sometimes life requires stupid. It requires irrational. It requires letting go of our deep way of living and just existing with others in an indulgent, relaxed way. Overeat. Eat shit. Drink too much.

And enjoy the rest of your days of moderation.

God knows we’ve got plenty of those bastards.

Sometimes it’s just about humanity: Stupid, glorious humanity.

And candy.

We’ve talked about baby sprinkles and push presents. And you know, I thought I might actually die from the cuteness of a baby sprinkle, and on many levels the push present makes me want to jab myself in the eyes with rusty nails. Wow, sorry, that was more graphic than I anticipated. But at least, people, the baby sprinkle and push present make sense on some level.

It’s a fucked-up level, but still, it’s a level.

I mean it never makes real sense to call something a “sprinkle” instead of a “shower.” That shit’s just wrong. And I maintain that the best “push present” around is the human that actually exits the vagina post-pushing, however, the “gender reveal party” is some next-level shit.

First of all, if you can’t call it what it is, you shouldn’t be having it. It’s a SEX REVEAL PARTY. Gender is a social construction. In other words, the “gender” of your child won’t be determined until your kid decides if he/she is a girl or a boy or both or neither. But “sex reveal” party sounds weird. And we all know people who unleash a box of pink or blue balloons to signal the genitalia of their little miracle are totally not into weirdness.

Reason number 1 it’s the stupidest shit ever.

But I should back up. Readers of this blog may not know what the hell I’m talking about (which is, incidentally, why we’re lovers). Anyway, it’s this thing where parents reveal the sex of their kid to family and friends in a party. A PARTY. Like they invite a bunch of people over and exclaim (via some totally cute method found on Pinterest): Boy! Girl!.  And then everybody pretends to care.

I’ve heard parents will like cut into a cake and the filling is either pink or blue.

Ohmygod how cute. Hold me while I attempt to recover from the cuteness.

But now, things are changing! According to our trusty pal BabyCenter, “Cutting into a cake with pink or blue filling is so two years ago. A “gender reveal” extravaganza, on the other hand – complete with games, favors, and a Pinterest board? Now you’re talking!”

Oh god help us. Games. Yes, please. Let’s play games relating to the sex of your unborn baby.  Fascinating!

They continue: “The gender reveal party trend has exploded in the last year…Why the boom? The economic hard times may have something to do with it. ‘People are looking for reasons to celebrate.’” (more BabyCenter)

NO. No no no no no.

This is not it. This is not the reason people are throwing gender reveal parties. The reason people are throwing these parties is because they have become so materialistic and self-involved they fail to recognize the single fatal flaw with an event like this:

NOBODY CARES AS MUCH AS YOU DO about whether your kid has a penis or vag.

Maybe your mom.

Nope. Nevermind. Nobody. Not even your mom. Even you mom doesn’t care as much as you do.

Those are some shitty odds, dude. And yet, it’s a fact. Truth. Written in stone. To illustrate, I made a graph.

This means you are asking a bunch of people to come over and celebrate a detail with absolutely no bearing on their lives. In the lives of other people, the sex of your kid deserves an “oh, cool,” a passing nod, a mention to their husband or wife “So and so’s having a boy! She’s totes bummed cause it’s her 4^th boy, but whatevs.”

Yeah. Not sure what happened there but I felt it necessary.

You aren’t even celebrating the CHILD. You aren’t really even celebrating the sex of the child. Rather, you are celebrating YOURSELF. You’re like “Hey everybody! Come watch me learn something I care about even though you don’t!” Or, if the parents already know the sex (though the “hottest trend” is to have the doctor write the sex on a piece of paper and then it’s revealed at the party to the parents too! OMG HOW ADORABLE!”), then you’re asking people to take time out of their lives to celebrate a piece of information without any personal connection or meaning, and it’s even less interesting because they don’t even get to WATCH YOU give a shit.

“I command you to come to my house and celebrate nothing, because it means something to me!”

Yay! Fun! Balloons!

I see it as an excuse to buy shit and do adorable things with paper and cupcakes and mason jars. And that’s cool. I do it for my kids’ birthdays. But that’s kind of semi-logical because celebrating people’s LIVES makes sense. But celebrating their GENITALIA?

Nope.

It’s another commercialized invention just cute enough people buy into it.

“Need some ideas for your gender reveal party?” (Oh yes, please, all-consuming mindless materialistic America, give me some ideas!)

You can use a “fun theme!” like “pregnancy cravings (think pickles, ice cream, and potato chips) or ducks (hang up a “waddle it be” banner).”

PLEASE FUCKING SHOOT ME.

You should for sure ”Make those teams commit!…Ask everyone to wear either pink or blue, or provide gender-specific accessories, such as pink and blue bead necklaces, pins, leis, or temporary tattoos. One inspired couple gave out cardboard mustaches and lips on sticks.”

Make it stop. Please.

“My friend is going to make cake pops, but only one will have the colored center,” says one BabyCenter mom. A particularly creative idea comes from Tiffany: “We had a huge Easter egg hunt, and one egg had a slip of paper inside that said, ‘It’s a boy!'”

I just can’t.

Baby showers celebrate new life. People can relate to that. Mother blessings celebrate the transition to motherhood. People get that. Bridal showers, bachelor parties, birthday parties…these are ritual events signaling movement in life, new birth new growth new chapters. These events resonate with something in me, something that’s facing new moments too. Maybe I’ve been there. Maybe I’m waiting for it.

This nonsense? It’s celebrating nothing. It’s like the vacation party in the 1970s were Sue and Rick invite their 30 friends over to watch a slide show of their trip to the Grand Canyon, only in this scenario, all the guests act SUPER INTERESTED because duh! It’s baby stuff! Whee!

Also, do you have a shower too? If so, do you demand people to come over to your house TWICE to celebrate your offspring? I read about a woman who had a gender reveal party for her fourth child. Oh good lord.

Can you imagine how little interest there was in that event? Not only are you making me get excited about your FOURTH kid, you want me to celebrate its SEX?

Let’s examine a graph of people’s interest in your pregnancy based on the number of offspring, just to get a little perspective.

Are humans really so out-of-touch they haven’t realized that everybody else is busy thinking about themselves and their lives, and if you’re gonna be like “Hey let’s celebrate me!” it better be for a decent reason?

I mean if you’re gonna drag my ass to your house and force me to wear a damn pink pumpkin (cause it’s October!), it better be a major life event (not a miniscule detail skirting a major life event).

Wait.

OMG. Are there people that enjoy this shit?

There are people that enjoy this shit.

There are. Aren’t there?

There are people that are like “Yay! Katie’s having her reveal this weekend! I’m so excited!”

I’ll never fit. I hate the world.

Now I know what some of you are like: “Oh come on, it’s just fun! Who cares? It’s a reason to celebrate! It’s one more reason to have fun and celebrate our babies! There’s no problem!”

Yeah, there is a problem. The problem is that it’s fucking stupid.

Why isn’t that enough?

Why isn’t the fact that it’s self-absorbed and inane sufficient reason to outlaw it all together?

Right. Because it’s just so cute. It’s just so cute and crafty and we all dig crafty cute shit! We’re women! We craft! We’re crafters! We like wearing summer dresses and giggling and celebrating our existence!

I’ll tell you what, harbingers of Satan wherever you are inventing crap like this, I’ll think of a few “creative” things you can do with that pink-filled cake pop, and then we’ll talk about my gender reveal party.

Mmmkay?

Cool.