Saturday night was the Don't-Call-It-A-Baby-Shower, and people, the bar has been set high.
Instead of sitting around watching the mother-to-be awkwardly open endless pink-ribboned packages of booties and onesies, we stood in the front yard when 12 adult men and women nearly gave themselves aneurysms racing to drink beer from baby bottles. Instead of sipping tea while Great-Great Aunt Edna retold the story of how she gave birth to her eighth child out in the cow pasture, in a snowstorm, uphill BOTH WAYS, we drank home-brewed "It's a Girl Raspberry Ale." And instead of guessing how many safety diaper pins fit inside of a baby-wipe container, we took turns trying to bash open a papier mache baby bottle to get at the candy and nips inside. And you KNOW a baby shower has gone well when the police come to break it up.
In all seriousness, I can't think of the last time I felt so loved. Alex and I are incredibly lucky to have such great friends. Thank you, guys.