Wait wait don't tell me

An out-of-town friend sends me something in a big, square, orange envelope. Thinking 60th birthday party, I tear into the card, and start to weigh how to get to Atlanta. Terry has a big, beautiful, Martha Stewart house, and gobs of sumptuous, Southern hospitality. Ac-tu-ally, as I whisk on my reading glasses, I'm hoping the party is at her summer house in the Blue Ridge Mountains, which is closer and more William Sonoma.

But. No. The round card which slides deftly out of the envelope is a birth announcement, one given to extreme detailing: little plaid ribbons, a baby picture, oodles of artful shapes and papers layered in complimentary colors.

I do the math: Terry is over 60, hardly a new mother. So--Oh. It seems that Terry's daughter, Laura--not Terry--has had a child, her first. And so this must be-- a grandchild announcement?

I look disbelievingly back at the envelope. Sure enough, it's from Terry, nor Laura. And it arrived, no kidding, with a vanity stamp of the baby, who, judging from the its little red, swollen face, is just hours from the womb. Terry writes, "....and this is what lies ahead of us all."



Me, I tend to shirk from perky platitudes. Grandmotherhood may or may not lay ahead , but I swear on a stack of Ms. magazines, I'll pass on this second-round, send-around ritual.

My cynicism-slash-envy continues: And did Terry have one of the newest cultural perversions, the grandmother shower?



I recall the day a white-haired friend's friend announced that her quilting group was giving her a shower, in anticipation of her first grandchild. I actually had to cup my mouth with my hand to hold back a stream of mocking, jesting astonishment. "It's so helpful," she went on, oblivious to my gaff, "because of all the equipment you'd have to buy, all over again."

What's it gonna take for me to get through these years, with babyboomer after babyboomer going over the top? What I know so far is that being shown pictures of new grandchildren requires forced enthusiasm. It demands a certain degree of robust ooh-ing and ah-ing...



...and then excuses about your own kids and what they haven't yet produced. As if some YIELD were required of them.



I hang on to the card for weeks, either to torture myself, or as a totem to ward against babyboomer excesses--you choose. But of course I don't show it around. I can't risk the reactions of girlfriends. They may want to call Terry and get the name of the card company, or go 'You know, I haven't told anyone yet, but-----