By
Erin MacLean
I know what this
means. I will have to sacrifice my beloved Sunday afternoon coffee-and-newspaper
time. I will have to spend a healthy chunk of Saturday afternoon
in search of the perfect gift with which to welcome an addition
to a friend’s family while trying to push down the feeling
that I’m losing someone from my own.
Add to this
the fact that I will choose and purchase many gifts with care over
the next few months and likely never recoup the expense. I know,
I am a terrible, horrible person; but why don’t we celebrate
the decision not to have children with gift registries and potato
salad? For years to come any gift I receive from these friends will
come in a recycled “It’s a Boy!” gift bag, an
uncomfortable reminder of just how slow off the mark I am. I hate
feeling that I’m not part of the club. I keep my insecurities
in check by deciding to think of myself as pulling away from the
pack, instead of lagging behind it.
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