The new ambivalence
I was in New York this weekend for my best friend's baby shower and while it was, of course, a very happy occasion, it seemed slightly more complicated than its pink ribbons and bows let on.
We'd decided against any sort of "theme" (and likewise nixed the horrible party games that often are part of these events), but, if there had to be a theme, I think it would have been something like, "Ambivalence: Bring a gift that reflects your deeply conflicted feelings about modern motherhood."
Sadly, they don't make pre-printed invitations for that one.
So most people went with the more standard-issue gifts, like tiny little articles of clothing that come with tiny little matching accessories, like tiny little hats and tiny little socks.
Still, there was something in the air that went, appropriately, unsaid. This was, after all, a gathering of women -- most of us in our early 30's (or, what passes, in our demographic, for peak childbearing years) and a handful of older, presumably wiser, elders. And it would have been cool if we could have had some sort of conversation about how, exactly, anyone is supposed to do this whole motherhood thing.
My friend, whom we were showering, has been married for seven years and has been pretty resolute in maintaining that no, thanks for asking, she was not aware of the ticking of any sort of biological clock. She's the kind of brilliant and obsessive thinker, who, were she not married to one of the most nurturing men on the face of the planet, you could easily see living a busy, career-focused "life of the mind" that does not include raising children.
And, throughout her pregnancy, she's refused to get into all the elevation-of-motherhood-above-all-other-endeavors stuff that seems to characterize modern yuppie parenthood. She is (as yet, anyway) unconflicted about continuing her career and having her daughter taken care of in a day care center. This has cast her, in her words, as "the bad mother" in her birthing classes.
Because the cultural trend of the moment seems to hold that she should be "glowing" and "basking" and all of that. And, if she isn't, well, she must be doing something wrong.
There is only one right way to be pregnant these days, it seems. It has to be the most blissed out, wonderful thing that's ever happened in your life.
And even my friend, who is beloved for her honesty and directness, realized that you're not allowed to say otherwise at your baby shower.
Her shower was hosted by three childless women: a single friend who lives in Manhattan and is contemplating moving in with her boyfriend, her lesbian sister who plans to move in with her girlfriend later this year and me, the newlywed. It's possible we were sort of underqualified for the endeavor.
The single friend, who lives alone in a really great apartment, is nervous about the idea of sharing personal space with someone, even someone she loves. It's tough to imagine have a kid while living in separate apartments.
The lesbian sister is pretty sure she doesn't ever want to give birth to a child, but might consider raising one with a partner.
And I'm refusing to entertain questions on the subject until I've been married for a year.
Still, though we've all discussed these feelings privately, when it came to putting a public face on for the party, we all found ourselves oohing and ahhing over the unbearable cuteness of pink footie pajamas. To do otherwise is simply unthinkable.
It was all great fun. But it seemed, somehow, too, a little like a lost opportunity.
