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Baby Shower Games and Other Forms of Torture

Candy's Column

Baby Shower Games and Other Forms of Torture

25-Week Easter Bump

25-Week Easter Bump

My sister-in-law is generously throwing me a baby shower on the East Coast in a couple of weeks.  I’m not a particularly traditional gal — kept my maiden name; am kinda bummed Baby Girl will have my hubby’s last name; had my two best guy friends stand up for me at my wedding as opposed to a sea of chicks in pastels, much to my grandma’s chagrin; and, well, you get the point — so I naturally requested a co-ed shower AND, this is key, a minimal amount of shower games.  Preferably zero, but my enthusiastic SIL implored me to allow two.  Being the understanding soul that I am, I growled, “Okay, fine.”  It was the least I could do, after all, considering she is even making baby stroller lollipops for the shindig.

I must admit, I am girly enough to appreciate that.  I mean, really, baby stroller lollipops!  How adorable is that?

This kid is turning me into such a sap.

Any-sappy, my sister-in-law recruited the help of my mom and sister to help with the all-important shower game selection process.  I’d already vehemently vetoed the one in which guests GUESS HOW FREAKING BIG YOUR STOMACH IS.  All-caps to emphasize the truly inhumane nature of the “game” or, as I like to call it, pregnant lady torture device.  I can just see it now, people peering at my huge belly and shouting out:

“Five feet around!”

“No, that’s ridiculous.  She’s BIG, but she’s not that big.”

“Four feet?”

“Yeah, that’s more like it.”

Now educated in the field of baby shower games, my mom informed me of another savage game requiring guests to guess which of our traits we would like Baby Girl to inherit.  Um, yeah, THAT’S going to end well.

“Candy’s hair!”

“Candy’s?  Why Candy’s?”  Carl would ask while running to the mirror to look for phantom bald spots.

“Carl’s brains!”

“What, you think I’m stupid or something?” I’d cry, wondering how they knew about that “C” I’d gotten in Economics class.

Trust me, nobody wins in this game.

And, yet, we can’t help but think of what we’d like to pass on to our children, can we?  I may not want other people pointing out Carl’s superior traits — nay, I DEFINITELY do not want that — but Carl and I have dreamily talked about Baby Girl getting his math and science skills, and my language and music talents.  Which, of course, means the poor thing will inherit just the opposite.  But as I watched Mr. Candy consistently clap off-beat at yesterday’s Gospel Brunch at the House of Blues, an oblivious smile of joy on his face, I realized that’s okay, too.

Just as long as nobody’s guessing the circumference of my damn belly, it’s all good.

Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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