Pre-Post PSA:
**Those of you unfamiliar with the concept of "exaggeration for effect" or without a sense of somewhat black humor are encouraged not to read further, as you will probably be scarred for life and feel compelled to call me a heartless unfeeling bitch in the comments and that makes me cry. Thank you for your attention. **
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It's no secret that I do not like children or anything involving children. (As an illustration: Iwas sitting at my favorite coffee shop this sunday morning, glued to the NYT in my usual race to finish it before the sun sets. Something that another person would probably consider to be an adorable cherub suddenly clambered up on the chair opposite mine at my table and settled in to eat his cookie with his fat little hands while humming to himself. I glared him for the entire duration of his performance until his father noticed and hurriedly removed the brat to a more appropriate location. ah relief.)
However -- one of my very best friends, whom I adore, is dead-set on having one of these obnoxious pre-verbal things. So set, in fact, that she is actually six months pregnant with one. Which means the arrival of an actual child is immiment. And since the parents are both very good friends of mine, I feel I must at least not despise the child. So, during the pregnancy, I've been making a real effort to adjust to a mindset less child-unfriendly, to offer to help with (ew!) babysitting so the poor parents can have some couple-time, etc. I've sat through conversations about the comparative benefits of baby-Bjorns vs. strollers vs. some strap thingy that's apparently a freaking miracle, about a crib vs. a cradle (a CRADLE? no one actually puts their baby in a cradle anymore do they?), etc., with a polite smile on my face, never once saying "oh my god, what happened to you??" I've looked at ultrasound pictures that look more like a study in "dandruff on black velvet" than an actual human, pretended to be fascinated by day care problems and dutifully asked after the baby's kicking habits (actually, that part's pretty entertaining all on its own). And, in all reality, I've gotten to the point where I don't *totally* resent the kid for coming in and changing everything, and am almost interested in meeting it (of course, i'm completely interested in buying it really cute clothes, which is the only part of baby-world I've never had a problem with -- how could you not love merrells the size of your palm and miniature sweater vests? aw.).
And how have I been rewarded for all my effort? With the scheduling of this damn thing's shower on the exact same weekend as Major Event in Friend's East-Coast City. And when I say "major event," I do not mean the county fair -- think more like the Republican National Convention nightmare of '04. Except in a slightly smaller city. Which means every manner of ingress to City is practically fully booked already and that every decent hotel (i.e., nothing with a billboard advertising its room rates out front) I've contacted for a room has told me, quite condescendingly, either "Ma'am, it's [Major Event] weekend. You should have booked in 2005, at the latest," or quoted me a nightly rate only slightly less than the GNP of a small African nation. And it's weeks away, this thing. WEEKS. I'm ready to strangle someone. Children are the root of all evil.