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It’s a tiny, velvety pink pair of pajamas, with miniature feet, each one barely big enough for a Ruby K’s mini-muffin, and a silky cut-out of a pointe shoe stitched over one hip.
It’s a handmade quilt with squares of antique fabric featuring drawings of marionettes.
It’s a book, only it’s also a glove with a little pig on each finger.
It’s a baby.
My friend Claire hosted my baby shower this past weekend, an event I had been both looking forward to and sort of dreading for weeks. On one hand, I am drastically fond of my baby, unborn though she dutifully remains, and wanted to gush about her with all my girlfriends. On the other hand, I have always felt a little funny about baby showers – the corny games, the overbearing cuteness of all the gifts and, in general, the way everyone is reduced to blobs of talking estrogen.
However, at seven months pregnant, I didn’t mind so much.
My estrogen has been in charge for many weeks now. I have just about given up the fight to be a fully-functioning, well-rounded adult capable of talking about a variety of topics, some of which are not even baby-related.
My appearance is not deceiving: I really am just a sleep sack for a three-and-a-half pound fetus. I am something other than what I used to be.
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