Baby showers seem to be a celebration reserved for everyone else.
Chatting with an acquaintance of my aunt was relatively easy. I might not be as enthusiastic about small talk as he is, but I’ve inherited my father’s knack for conversing with anyone, anywhere. My daughter was busy exploring, and this acquaintance commented on her fluffy diaper. I explained that we use cloth diapers, and she shared that during her parenting years in the early ’70s, they also opted for cloth. She lamented the struggles her daughter faced in finding the right disposable that didn’t break the bank or irritate her grandkids’ skin.
I smiled and nodded, but then she hit me with, “And those baby showers are the worst! You end up with tons of diapers and just hope they fit your kids!”
“Yeah, well,” I replied, “that wasn’t a problem for me.”
When I was expecting my first daughter, my (male) best friend and his wife attempted to throw me a shower. Only one person showed up. Seriously. I didn’t have many close girlfriends at the time, and the few I did had no kids. Each one canceled for various reasons, oblivious to how disheartening that was for me. My workplace, predominantly female, forgot to organize anything and tried to hastily throw something together on my last day. It didn’t pan out.
Now, my best friend has moved back to New York, and I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for two years. Most of my child-free friendships have diminished. I never anticipated a shower this time around. But society seems to think otherwise. I’m a 31-year-old mom-to-be, sharing joyful bump photos on social media like everyone else. Baby showers are considered standard. Even for second-time moms, it’s typical to have some form of celebration. Recently, I was invited to a surprise sprinkle for another second-time mom. I’ve even seen posts about various types of parties—some call them sprinkles, while others stick with showers but focus on specific themes like diaper showers, book showers, or meal showers, where friends prepare freezer meals for the new mom.
It seems universally accepted that every expectant mother is celebrated. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re creating a new life! Yet, it appears that everyone assumes someone else will take care of it. Someone else will step in.
So what happens when the celebrations don’t happen? A desert forms… Or you learn to nurture it yourself.
For a long time, I let that metaphorical desert expand. I felt parched and cracked. Honestly, I still find myself in that state at times. But I’m beginning to remember that I need to care for myself. After all, it’s my baby.
We don’t need material gifts. I don’t need presents. What I crave is celebration. I want my children recognized for the miracles they are. And I can create that celebration myself. There may not be as many balloons, streamers, or cupcakes adorned with tiny baby designs, but I can honor my journey.
I am releasing the notion that a party is a testament to love. Not every mother receives a shower. Most moms around the world aren’t American friends sipping mocktails and indulging in cake pops.
I am letting go of the hurt that arises from seeing others’ joyful celebrations on social media. That isn’t reality. I want others to feel happy for me, and I understand that no one is intentionally causing pain.
I’m also learning to accept that not everyone can provide the support and closeness I desire. It’s unfair to expect it of them. Just as I often struggle to manage my daughter’s needs alongside my own basic care, I can’t hold others to an impossible standard.
I’m going to celebrate myself. I created a human being. It’s incredible! I formed every single cell of my child’s body. I absolutely deserve to honor this milestone. Not only that, but I accomplished this while caring for another little person I brought into the world. I may feel lonely at times, but I’m also pretty amazing.
I’m going to shower myself—not with unnecessary and extravagant gifts—but with grace, compassion, and love for this body that built a family from scratch.
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In summary, the absence of traditional celebrations does not define my worth or my journey as a mother. I am taking charge of my own joy and celebrating the incredible feat of motherhood on my own terms.