For the Baby Shower
A Guide to Hosting the Perfect Baby Shower
You know me. I live for the baby shower.
No, really. People think I’m joking. “Oh, you have another one this weekend?” My friends blink at me like I’m grinding out billable hours at the law office of DAZED & PREGNANT instead of elbow-deep in pink tulle and gold-edged pastry boxes. But this is my joy. This is my Olympics. Put me in, Coach.
I have made so many baby shower invitations that if you stacked every single one, you’d…well, you’d have a very weird and heavy stack of cardstock announcing It’s a Girl! or Royal Prince Incoming or one ill-fated Tiny Dino Sighting—Hatchling On Board! That one still makes me giggle. What can I say, the theme was “prehistoric cuteness.” The baby did have a pointy little head.
But back to the shower. There’s this moment—maybe you know it—where you burst through the doors of the event space (girl math: a backyard tent with three mismatched tables and one cousin holding a deflated balloon sculpture of Moana). You stand there, arms loaded with bunting and secret Pinterest boards dancing in your eyes, and all the targeting ads of the last six years finally, FINALLY, pay off.
There’s a shimmer. A sparkle. Maybe it’s the glitter fallout from the invitations, maybe it’s your nervous sweat. Doesn’t matter, because you are in creation mode. No one else notices the little girl in you, the one who’d line up her dolls for a royal welcome. “Your majesty Midge, the buffet is now open!” This is just fancier, with grown-up budgets and sometimes actual babies. (None of whom care about those lemon-raspberry cakes you chased down across three counties, but their parents will. I promise.)
Look, I’ve been at enough baby showers to have opinions on everything. Megaphone opinions. Invitations? Don’t even come at me with “E-vites.” I’ll accept them but only because I respect the planet and the mailbox is an endangered species. Still, let’s not pretend an email invite sparkles quite like a hand-embossed scroll tied up with ribbon. And a sticker. (I dare someone to try to RSVP “no” to a real, honest-to-Princess-Anneliese invitation. It’s impossible.)
Balloons? Oh, honey. The correct number of balloons is… all of the balloons. Every single balloon in a 10-mile radius. You want the guest of honor to feel buoyant, right? Buoyant and slightly scared, like a mother duck being followed by a dozen overexcited ducklings with streamer hats.
I love the challenge. Because oh, baby! There are always challenges. Aunt Debra can’t eat gluten, your best friend is threatening to deliver early if you use lavender again, and the dog (WHY is the dog here?) has developed a taste for glitter. But here’s the secret: when you pull it all together, and you see the mama-to-be’s face—teary, surprised, catching her breath as she looks at the pile of baby-sized socks and the slightly tipsy advice cards her college roommate is currently illustrating with stick-figure positions for labor—when she looks at you and says, “I feel so loved,” it hits you. Holy sht! You just made a tiny, glittery world where someone gets to feel like a fricken princess before all the spit-ups start.
All for the baby shower. ALL. FOR. IT.
The next day, my house looks like a Post-It note mated with a confetti cannon, and no, I can’t find my glue gun, don’t ask me about it. But my heart? It’s wobblier than a baby giraffe wearing booties for the first time. I’ll absolutely do it again. And again. And again, until every baby gets a shower fit for Baby Royalty and every tired parent gets to beam like the king or queen they are.
Tell me your wildest baby shower story. Go ahead. Did you use real tiaras? (No shame.) Did you cry at the diaper cake? (Same. Every time.) Invite me in, darling. I’ll bring balloons.