This past weekend I helped host a baby shower for my niece. Thirty-five of her nearest and dearest had accepted the invite to make the trek to my house to drink punch, play a couple of harmless games and oooh and aaah at appropriate intervals. Of course, they had no idea when they checked that "yes" box on the invite, that they were going to have to travel through monsoon-like conditions that included numerous tornado sightings but, happily, that didn't deter many of them. The weather may have been bad enough for a bunch of tough-guy football players to take a seat for a couple of hours but women on their way to a baby shower for someone as special as my niece? Not a chance.
As usual, my family was running behind when the first guests arrived. No problem. We hastily enlisted our new labor force and everyone pitched in to finish the last minute decorations and food preparation before the guest of honor arrived. Luckily, her baby bump prevented her from seeing my still unwashed kitchen floor as she pronounced the surroundings "beautiful" and "perfect".
After munching on an assortment of goodies (including mini-wieners and meatballs - don't blame me, it was her mom's idea to follow that "it's a boy" theme to its logical culinary conclusion), it was on to the gifts. And that's when I started getting a little misty. As she unwrapped colorful bouncy chairs and impossibly tiny booties, I remembered. I remembered the waiting; the anxiety; the hopefulness. I remembered the intense anticipation that washed over me as I prepared to be a first-time mom. Maybe it was a million years ago but I could feel everything she was feeling as if it were yesterday.
But it wasn't. My daughter is getting married in a couple of weeks and my son is planning a cross-country move sometime next year. I'm about to wrap up Act One of my mothering career and someone I love's adventure is just beginning.
Turn. Turn. Turn.
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