I was invited to a birthday party. For a two-year-old. My work friend J’s son. She hand-delivered the invitation.
I debated about whether I should go. I asked Hubby if he wanted to come with me because I figured I could use the support, but I didn’t pressure him because I haven’t gone to any of his work/social events with him in years.
I like J. We work closely together, and I’ve discussed our infertility with her. I’d met her little boy a couple of times. So I decided to go. I told her, though, that I would probably only stay for a short time. And I explained why. I think she gets it.
There weren’t as many little kids there as I was expecting. (Because I was expecting there to be about 147 kids.) And no pregnant women, thank god. There was, however, a 3-month-old. A gorgeous, big-eyed, smiley, squealy baby.
Because I work with young children, I’ve gotten pretty good at interacting on a completely superficial level, if only to protect myself. If I hold a baby, that will be the end of me, but I can ask vaguely interested questions and smile and nod while his mother goes on and on about breastfeeding, teething, sleeplessness, and her restricted diet because of–what else?–breastfeeding.
The birthday boy was, of course, adorable. I don’t know if he remembered me, but he smiled shyly at me and showed me his cars. He made a mess of his cake. He couldn’t have cared less about all the clothes he got, but he wanted to take every single toy out of the package. He said “Hi, baby” when his mom held the 3-month-old.
And I didn’t ruin any of it.
Was it the most pleasant hour and a half of my life? No. Will I accept the next invitation I get? Maybe. But I have to say, I’m kind of proud of myself for not getting depressed, crying, or refusing to go, even when I didn’t feel like it. Maybe I’ve grown.
In other breaking-out-of-my-comfy-little-cocoon news, I finally texted a few friends I haven’t seen in a while, apologizing for being out of touch lately. I have retreated to my blog (and all of yours) and find myself a bit cut-off from my real-world friends. Time to get back and try my skills at talking about something other than treatments, needles, tests, yearning, or the size of Hubby’s balls.
I survived a 2-year-old’s birthday party. This should be a piece of cake.