“I was just so excited,” she would say later, her version of an apology never quite reaching the level of actual remorse.
And the baby names? Oh, that was another spectacular display of boundary crossing.
Daniel and I had been discussing baby names since the day we found out I was pregnant. After months of deliberation, we had narrowed it down to two names: Ezra for a boy, and Quinn for a girl.
We wanted to keep the names private until after the gender reveal, a little piece of magic just for us.
But Patricia shared them with her entire bridge group faster than you could say “oversharing.”
Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like running into one of your MIL’s friends at the grocery store and getting a disappointed lecture about your “eccentric” baby name choices.
When I confronted Patricia, she laughed it off.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you wanted to keep it secret and everyone was asking!” she said. “And don’t mind Margaret. She meant well. Your name choices are a little unusual.”
So when we decided to have a gender reveal party, I was beyond cautious.
I had a checklist of every detail I’d need to control to make it Patricia-proof. It had to be small, too, so I could do all the planning and much of the work myself.
I sighed as I lay in bed one night, thinking about everything that could go wrong.
“It would be easier to just not invite her,” I remarked to Daniel.
“She means well,” Daniel said, his hand finding mine, our fingers intertwining. “Let’s give her a chance. She won’t ruin something as sweet and simple as a cake-cutting.”
My husband. Always the optimist. Always believing the best in people, even when those people have a documented history of spectacular, breathtaking sabotage.
The backyard that afternoon was a masterpiece of carefully curated celebration.
“I was just so excited,” she would say later, her version of an apology never quite reaching the level of actual remorse.
And the baby names? Oh, that was another spectacular display of boundary crossing.
Daniel and I had been discussing baby names since the day we found out I was pregnant. After months of deliberation, we had narrowed it down to two names: Ezra for a boy, and Quinn for a girl.
We wanted to keep the names private until after the gender reveal, a little piece of magic just for us.
But Patricia shared them with her entire bridge group faster than you could say “oversharing.”
Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like running into one of your MIL’s friends at the grocery store and getting a disappointed lecture about your “eccentric” baby name choices.
When I confronted Patricia, she laughed it off.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you wanted to keep it secret and everyone was asking!” she said. “And don’t mind Margaret. She meant well. Your name choices are a little unusual.”
So when we decided to have a gender reveal party, I was beyond cautious.
I had a checklist of every detail I’d need to control to make it Patricia-proof. It had to be small, too, so I could do all the planning and much of the work myself.
I sighed as I lay in bed one night, thinking about everything that could go wrong.
“It would be easier to just not invite her,” I remarked to Daniel.
“She means well,” Daniel said, his hand finding mine, our fingers intertwining. “Let’s give her a chance. She won’t ruin something as sweet and simple as a cake-cutting.”
My husband. Always the optimist. Always believing the best in people, even when those people have a documented history of spectacular, breathtaking sabotage.
The backyard that afternoon was a masterpiece of carefully curated celebration.
