---

I hate being the center of attention. You would think, being the middle child, that I would crave it, but I don’t. Mystery shopping fell into my lap (a lap I no longer possess, given my thirty-fifth week of pregnancy), but I don’t think it was an accident that my first real, adult job out of college involved flying under the radar and observing other people.

Not being the object of observation.

When I was a kid, my birthday parties were about hanging out with my friends, eating cake, and having more toys to play with–with my friends. I didn’t care about being the birthday girl, or having people shower me with praise. I don’t need to be the focus. I just need to be included.

This baby shower is the grown-up version of my ninth birthday, minus dad dressing up as a clown and Mom lighting the piñata on fire.

Oh, God.

She doesn’t have a piñata here, does she?

“Mom! You didn’t get a baby shower piñata, did you?” I ask as she washes her hands at the sink. Spread out across the countertop is enough food to feed, well, not an army.

Maybe an army made up of all the very pregnant women in my childbirth class, though.

“Oh!” She looks stricken at my question. “Did you want a piñata? The only ones I could find seemed so beastly. Batting at a giant papier mâché baby to make it spit out candy seemed a little over the top, even for me,” she says nervously.

“No, no, I don’t want a piñata.”

“Whew.”

“What’s this?” I ask, poking at a cake that looks like something from Mardi Gras.

“A king cake.”

“For a baby shower?”

“I baked a baby into it! I thought it would be cute.”

“So we can’t beat a piñata in the form of a baby, but eating a baby is fine?”

“Oh, Shannon, stop. Plus, I got lots of beads.” She picks up a string of beads and shakes it.

“Is the baby shower a Mardi Gras theme? Do people have to flash their boobs to get a string of beads?”

“That’s a great idea!”

“No, Mom. It’s not.”

“I’m kidding, Shannon.”

“It’s impossible to tell.”

“I’m working on that.” She hands me a flat, sunken cupcake. “Here.”

“What is it?” I eye it suspiciously but pop it in my mouth anyway.

“Tiramisu cheesecake cupcake.”

“I am having an orgasm in my mouth,” I say around the creamy goodness. “Mmmm. You can light piñatas on fire at my parties if you just keep making those.”

“We all promised never to talk about that incident again,” Mom says primly. “But your bangs did finally grow back in after the nasty singeing, so it’s all fine.”

Declan walks past us with purpose just as the doorbell rings. He opens the door to find James, flanked by Andrew and Amanda. Hugs, kisses, handshakes, and general greetings rumble down the hallway.

“And here we go...” I say, taking a deep breath.

“You always hated parties in your honor,” Mom says matter-of-factly, her look kind and maternal.

“You knew that?”

“We did. But we held them anyhow, because once you relaxed, you had so much fun.” She rubs my belly. “So relax. This is about him.” She pokes, once, where an elbow makes an appearance in my too-stretched skin. “Not you.”

“Uh, thanks.” Before I can say more, I’m enveloped by family, Carol and her boys tumbling in after Dec’s family, Pam coming in without Spritzy, to my utter shock, my hugging technique definitely different given the fact that every hug involves three people.

Dad plays host, offering up alcohol like he’s a Walmart greeter with booze, and soon we’re all settled in, chatting in clumps and clusters. I wander over to find Declan in a deep frown, talking with Andrew, Amanda, James, and Pam, who looks a bit unmoored without her ever-present dog in a handbag on her arm. I wonder where Spritzy is?

“Two months of trying is better than average, in fact,” Declan pointedly informs his brother. I look at Amanda, who uses her right shoulder to communicate that she has no idea what they’re talking about, Spritzy is at home with some kind of infection but is fine, and yes, she had a mouth orgasm, too, when she sampled one of Mom’s tiramisu cheesecakes.

She has a very expressive shoulder.

Andrew laughs and gestures toward me. “She’s what–twenty-eight? I’d imagine the odds are good when you’re young and breeding.”

“Breeding?” Declan and I say in unison, tone and all.

“Besides,” he adds, while Amanda does an impressive display of semaphore with a cocktail napkin and a coaster, spelling out Please don’t kill him he’s too good in bed for me to lose, “statistically speaking, every month you try, what are your chances?”

“About twenty percent,” Pam says out of the blue, turning to give Andrew a bright, aware look that I know is really all about her deep amusement.

“How do you know this?” he asks, knowing damn well what the answer is.

“I’m an actuary. It’s my job to know this.” She turns to James and lowers her voice. “By the way, I’ve seen the new woman you’re dating. Be sure to wrap it unless you’re ready for a fourth child.”

“Wrap what?” James asks, genuinely perplexed. “My secretary always wraps any gifts I give to women I woo.” He’s retired, but insists on having a secretary nonetheless. Andrew humors him.

“Not the one you slip them, Dad,” Andrew says, laughing. I look at his hand and see yet another beer, a different brand from the one he was drinking seconds ago. Woo...

Boy.

I look behind him to find Amanda signaling again. This time she sighs and spells out, Ok. Kill him. I’ll find a good vibrator.

“The one I slip–oh, Andrew! Don’t be gauche,” James chides in that rumbly way he has that simultaneously makes you think he’s disgusted but also quite proud of what his son is implying.

“You’re not sleeping with her?” Mom asks, feigning sympathy while offering up a plate of sugar and cream that I want to steal and hide in the corner to eat. “Do you need to go to the doctor and get a little blue pill, James?”

“What? No! I don’t–how did my sex life become a topic of conversation?” James huffs.

“Because Pam’s warning you not to get your current girlfriend knocked up. Don’t turn my future children into uncles or aunts with nieces and nephews who are older than them,” Andrew says in a loose voice.

“What? Actually, that’s not how it would work...”

“Anyway,” Andrew adds, chugging his beer for a few seconds before resuming. “Dad’s too old. His sperm have expired.”

Pam gives him a strange look. “Sex ed classes at Milton Academy weren’t very comprehensive, were they?”

“Milton is a fine school! The best!” James interjects, as if that has anything to do with this.

“You do realize men as old as James can father children,” Pam says to Andrew as if she’s his professor and he’s the class clown.

“Quit calling me old!” James interrupts.

“You’re offended by the word old?” Pam asks him calmly. “Why? It’s the truth. You are old. We are old.”

“Speak for yourself! I am middle aged.”

“Sure you are, Dad. Because everyone knows McCormick men live to be one hundred and fifty,” Andrew says with a snort.

“At the rate you’re going, you won’t see your next birthday, mister,” James growls.

“BREEDING?” I scream at Andrew through gritted teeth.

Funny how that word will silence a room.

“We are not breeding!” I inform him.

“Aren’t you? You’re pregnant.” The neck of his beer bottle tips toward my midsection.

I am so sorry, Amanda mouths, grabbing Andrew’s arm to pull him away from certain death at the hands of his father and brother.

But they’re nothing compared to me.

The doorbell rings just then, saving Andrew. He’s lucky he’s married to my best friend, who looks awful in funeral wear, or I’d kill him.

“Hamish!” Dad’s call of surprise makes James light up and walk toward the door.

I look at Mom, who is walking past with a Bundt cake covered in strawberries and lemon sauce. My stomach growls. I swear the baby moves toward the cake, as if drawn to sugar magnetically, my organs rearranged so he can get closer to the sweets.

“You invited Hamish, Mom?”

“What? He’s family. James mentioned he’s in town before some modeling gig in New York.”

“Does the guy ever actually play soccer anymore?” Amy tosses in. “All he seems to do is preen for the camera for big paychecks.”

“Shhh,” Mom chides as the big Scottish ginger, two generations removed from James but a very healthy representative of the Old World branch of the McCormick clan, walks in with a big smile and a small, wrapped box in his hands.

“Declan! Shannon! Congratulations are in order!” Dec takes the box in one hand, shakes Hamish’s big hand with the other, and I’m suddenly enveloped in auburn hair and the scent of woodsmoke and salt. I’m on my tiptoes, the baby bulge making this hug really uncomfortable.

“Oh, my. That’s a big belly!” he says, pulling back gracefully, righting me fast. “I’m so sorry, Shannon. But look at you! Aren’t you a glowing mum?”

“Thanks.” I look at the gift. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did. I was raised properly. You always bring a blessing for a new baby.” He kisses my cheek and looks at Dec with a wink. “Good for you, keeping the generations going. We don’t have any bairns yet in ours, but we’ll have to start keeping up with our American cousins.”

A dog collar jingles and soft fluff brushes against my ankles, coming to a halt at my feet. The dog’s eyes tip up under a fringe of white tied back with a little green bow.

“Aye! Who is this?” Hamish asks as Dad offers him a beer and Mom comes back, cakeless.

The baby moves himself back into non-sugar position.

“His name is Chuffy,” Mom says. “He’s our new puppy.”

“Come again?” Hamish’s eyebrows, a slightly deeper auburn than his hair, shoot up, eyes widening with a confused and slightly mortified look to them.

“Chuffy. You know. Like the UK word,” Mom replies, deeply pleased with herself.

Hamish chokes slightly on his beer. “Excuse me? The UK word?”

“Chuffed! You use it all the time over there. ‘I’m so chuffed!’ means you’re excited. I watch a lot of British television. So when we got Chuffy, he was so excitable! So excited about life.” Mom gives the dog an adoring look. Chuffy licks his penis.

“Marie, do you know what ‘chuff’ means?” Hamish asks, clearly assuming that only he knows the answer.

“Sure. I just said so. It means excited.”

“Well, now, ‘chuffed’ does, sure. But ‘chuff,’ itself, means something verra different.”

Amy leans in, suddenly part of the conversation.

“What does it mean?” she asks.

“It’s another word for vagina,” Hamish answers her directly.

The sound of soda spewing out of Amy’s mouth is only rivaled by the sight of her spraying all of it on Hamish’s chest, which–given his height–is about even with her face.

“Oh, my God!” I gasp, grabbing napkins to hand to the poor guy, who is, oddly enough, grinning madly at Amy.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she chokes and laughs.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m used to being the one suddenly spraying women with fluids, so it’s a nice turnabout.” Wink.

Mom is frowning at poor little Chuffy. “I don’t understand. Chuffy is all about being excited.”

“Trust me, Marie, it works either way. When men see a vagina, they get plenty excited,” Hamish says, flashing a wicked grin at Amy.

Amy punches him in the shoulder. “You’re so vulgar.”

“It isn’t vulgar to speak the truth.”

“For some reason, it is when it comes out of your mouth.”

“A hint, Amy, because perhaps you don’t know this: men don’t come out of our mouths.” Wink.

“You are a sick bastard.”

“I’m a sick one? Yer mother named yer house dog after a vagina.”

“Is that an insult? Like your mother smells of elderberries? Is that the Scottish equivalent of Yo Momma jokes?”

Hamish sniffs the air, then goes slowly toward Amy’s neck, inhaling with a sensual intention and a smirk that soon turns to a smolder I can’t watch. His slow, deep breath sets my nerves on fire, so I can only imagine what Amy’s going through as he says, “I dinna know about that, but you smell just fine. More than fine, in fact.”

“Quit flirting with me.”

“You think this is flirting?” He doesn’t move back, his nose an inch from her neck, body hovering over hers with a masculine intensity that takes over the room. “Oh, you wait. When I decide to flirt with you, Amy, you’ll know.” I expect him to wink, but he’s serious, his gaze on her and only her, the moment getting hotter by the second.

“So I named my dog Vagina-y?” Mom interrupts, breaking the spell as Amy huffs off and leaves me alone with a six-foot, two-inch walking hormone and a mother who is coming to grips with the fact that her little white puffball of joy has been given a hideous name.

“Ye did, Marie.” Hamish starts laughing. “Does he answer to it?”

“Yes.”

“Then too late. That’s his name.”

“I didn’t even get the sex right!” Mom wails. “Chuffy doesn’t even have a vagina!”

“Mom. It’s fine. Only people from the UK will know,” I assure her. Naming sentient beings carries so much responsibility. As I rub my big belly, I think about the name Dec and I are considering for this little boy. What if we pick one that means something horrible, or is utterly silly in a different culture or language? Mom can’t even get a dog’s name right. How am I supposed to do this for a human being?

“That’s true. You know, I did have a second-favorite name,” she says, musing. “Maybe we could switch to it.” Amy returns, drinking a glass of wine and scowling.

“What’s that?” Hamish asks politely.

“Fanny.” Mom brightens up.

“Jesus fooking Christ,” Hamish says with a shudder, walking away without another word.

“What?” Mom asks Amy, utterly puzzled.

“You are never allowed to name anything again.” Amy grabs a cookie, glances in the direction Hamish just went, and frowns.

In the distance, I hear Hamish laughing his ass off as James finds him and gives him a manly embrace that involves clapping each other so hard on the back, you’d think they were giving each other cystic fibrosis therapy. The noise volume in the house picks up with each new guest, until it sounds like every major family gathering, muted chaos mixed with polite small talk as people who only see each other because of ties to other people here try to catch up on months–sometimes years–of not being in contact.

My mother, father, sisters, and nephews are here. Terry’s just walked in the door, a case of some Flemish red sour ale I can’t drink in one hand, a small gift in another. Andrew and Amanda, James and Pam are in a circle, laughing with Hamish. Carol’s chatting with Josh and Greg. I told Mom I didn’t want a big crowd, and Grind It Fresh! is still so new that I don’t want to mix work with my personal life. Being the boss makes for dangerous territory.

So. We’re all here.

The doorbell rings.

Huh. My human inventory must be off.

“Agnes! Corrine!” Mom calls out from the front of the house. “I am so glad you could make it! Just in time for shower games!”

Agnes.

Corrine.

The two crotchettiest old ladies from Mom’s yoga classes.

Hold on. Mom just said something even worse.

“Mom, did you just say shower games?”

“YES! I know you told me no diaper cakes, no games, but I found one on the internet that is so hilarious. I made printouts and everything!”

“What kind of game?”

“It’s like Bingo.”

“I love Bingo,” Corrine says, moving slowly with her walker. She has a basket attached to the front, holding a wrapped present with fresh azaleas woven into the bow.

How sweet.

Behind them stands a young woman, somewhere around Amy’s age, with long, dark hair and the look of a twentysomething who is hanging with her grandma and isn’t sure what to do next.

“Hi. I’m Shannon. Come on in,” I say to her. She looks at my midsection and grins.

“Oh, no–thanks! I’m not staying. I’m just, uh–”

“This is Cassie. My granddaughter,” Agnes says.

“Are you here for the shower?” Who knows who else Mom invited? Maybe I should look for the paperboy I had a crush on back in sixth grade.

“I was, um–”

“She drove us here.”

“Did your daughter finally take your license away, Agnes?” Mom asks.

Bad, bad question.

“What, Marie? No. Hell no. My daughter has no power here.” Agnes looks at Cassie uncertainly. A rare flicker of vulnerability is there.

Or maybe she has bad gas. It’s hard to tell the difference.

“Cassie drove you here in your car,” Mom notices.

“Grandma is lending me her car,” Cassie sputters, clearly making it all up on the fly. “Mine broke down.”

“In the donut drive-thru line,” Corrine snickers.

“Shut up!” Agnes goes to nudge her.

“Don’t you dare!” Corrine hisses.

Ah, Mom. Thanks for spreading the joy and inviting these two to my shower.

“Anyhow,” Cassie says, playing with the end of her long ponytail. “What time should I get you, Grandma?”

It’s two o’clock now. Agnes looks past Mom and me and sees the crowd.

“Ooooh, the Highlander is here! From your not-wedding! Cassie, it’s going to be a long one. Pick us up at seven.” For an ancient woman, Agnes has speed when it comes to gingers. She almost trips me as she pushes through the hallway to find Hamish.

Cassie looks at me. I hold up four fingers.

She gives me a thumbs-up.

I like her.

As Dad helps settle their coats and carries their presents, I pull Mom aside.

“Seriously? We said family only.”

“Corrine heard me talking about the baby shower and I could tell it would just make her so happy to be included.”

I stare at her hard.

“Fine.” She sighs. “They knew Hamish was coming and offered to make sure my next Unicoga class hits capacity without the, uh, unicorns.”

Amanda and I wince and both look around, hoping Dec and Andrew aren’t anywhere near.

“Agnes has a grandson who owes her, big time. His church youth group is turning it into their wellness project.”

“The same kid who video’d Dec and me having sex for your ‘documentary’?”

“Please don’t use finger quotes. That’s so insulting. That makes it seem like it wasn’t real.”

I start to chew her out, but she holds up one finely manicured hand. I realize the nails are painted like little pacifiers, in shades of blue that match a thin line around the waist of her sweater.

And her eyeliner.

“They brought presents. Think about how much bigger your haul will be with all these added guests.”

“Dec and I aren’t exactly hurting financially, Mom.”

“Jason!” Agnes calls out in a voice like a cement truck. “Three fingers of scotch, neat.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart!” James calls out.

“More like after his liver,” I mutter.

“Please don’t be mad, Shannon. They’re nice women.”

“They’re perverted old bats.”

“People can be both, Shannon. The world isn’t so black and white.”

“NO!” shouts Hamish from the other room. “I wilna put on a kilt so ye can see me bollocks again like ye did at the failed wedding!”

Mom bristles at the words “failed wedding.”

“Nice. Women.” I grind out.

“Well, if nothing else, we’ll laugh about this in a few months,” Mom says with a grimace, scurrying off, squeezing past Declan, who is clearly searching for me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Do I look okay?”

“You look like you want to kill your mother.”

“Which is basically Resting Bitch Face for me, right? I don’t have RBF. I have KMMF.”

“KMMF?”

“Kill My Mother Face.”

“I only see BPWF.”

“What’s that?”

“Beautiful Pregnant Wife Face.”

“You’re a charmer.”

“It’s the only way to survive the third trimester, my sweet blossom.” He pulls me into his arms and gives me a kiss that melts every bit of reactivity in me, the seconds passing as we grow more intimate, my toes–the ones I haven’t seen in months, but have been assured are still there–curling, body infused with a rush of tingly pleasure that wipes all of the day’s worries away.

For about seven seconds.

“That’s how she got in this condition in the first place,” says an overly chipper Corrine, appearing suddenly behind Declan, who pivots, his ass grinding up against my belly as he avoids being anywhere near her hand.

“We figured that out about eight months ago,” I tell her.

“I’m looking for a bathroom,” she informs us.

I point to the door next to us, Declan shuffling away with all the weirdness of a guy avoiding pain. “Let me get you more tiramisu cheesecake,” he says. Such a giver, that one, sprinting down the hallway.

Corrine goes into the bathroom. I take two steps forward and realize–I need to pee, too. Of course I do. The only things I’ve been capable of these last few weeks are eating, peeing, and crying at commercials for the newest Ford F-150.

“Everyone!” Mom calls out from the living room. “Make sure you have a drink, something to snack on, and then let’s get this baby shower started with games!”

“GAMES!” I hear the men all shout in unison, groaning like they’re lifting a Ford F-150.

Great. Now I’m crying about that.

If Declan’s hiding his ass from the old ladies, I’m going to hide my entire self from him for a few minutes upstairs.

Two can play this game.

By the time I’ve peed, wiped, washed my hands, realized I need to pee again, finished, washed my hands, and trundled downstairs, Corrine’s done in the lower bathroom and... I pee again.

Finally my bladder stops holding me hostage and I waddle into the living room to find everyone holding pieces of paper with twenty-five pictures of women’s faces on them.

Mom hands me one.

Each picture has a line under it.

And the top of the sheet says, in bold block letters:

---

SHANNON’S BABY SHOWER GAME

LABOR, PORN, or CONSTIPATION?

---

“What fresh hell is this?” I whisper to Carol.

“Shhh. We’re concentrating.” She points to number eight. “No way is that labor. Her eyeliner is too perfect.” She writes “porn” under the woman’s face.

“Is Mom insane?”

“Are you the queen of rhetorical questions?”

I go to answer that and realize it’s a rhetorical question.

“Are Jeffrey and Tyler playing this?” I gasp.

“No. Mom bribed them to go play Minecraft in Dad’s man cave. She sent them off with a box of donuts.”

“Mmmm. Donuts. Where are they?” I start to go outside.

“I love donuts!” Greg announces in a deeply panicked voice.

A grip of steel grabs the pull tie for my maternity dress. “You do not get to escape this. We’re all stuck playing it.”

My eyes catch Declan’s. There’s a bleakness, a hollow shading to those normally vibrant green eyes.

“Pretty sure Mom just broke your man,” Carol says.

I look at the pictures. Then up at him.

She points to one of the pictures. “He kind of looks like her right now. Constipation?”

I kick her ankle. Hard.

“These are all women,” Josh says, gnawing on the end of his pen.

“Yes?” Mom is blinking furiously, clearly confused.

“All the porn I watch is men. How am I supposed to know any of these faces?” he complains.

Greg and Andrew pass a bottle of Scotch back and forth.

“Well,” James booms, narrow eyed and shrewd looking, “I do believe I’m done.”

“I’m done with this game too, Dad,” Dec says, starting to shove the paper aside.

“No, no. I mean I’m done. I’ve picked my answers.” He rubs his hands. “It’s a bit weird, but I’m always up for a challenge.”

“Oh, ho, ho!” Agnes crows. “You think you’ll win? What’s the prize, Marie?”

“Prize?” Mom looks up, her face frozen like #18.

“Porn,” Carol hisses, scribbling madly.

“If you’re going to have games, you have to have prizes!” Corrine announces.

“Can the prize be to never, ever speak of this game again?” Declan asks.

Andrew catches his eye as he slinks to the patio and slowly opens the door, inch by inch.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

Amanda grabs him. “Nope! We’re finishing this game. Help me with #9. Doesn’t she look like that woman from the Spring Break videos you were really into a few months ago?”

Everyone’s silent, either stunned into shock or focused on actually playing the game, so her words carry. Far.

“How about we skip the games?” I say. “It’s my party, right?”

“DONE!” Agnes yells, scaring poor Pam, who drops her paper and pen.

Hamish’s face is screwed up in concentration as he absent-mindedly chews on the end of a pen. “Porn, porn, porn,” he mutters, writing a big P under a series of pictures with such swiftness, Amy rolls her eyes. “And this one definitely needs more fiber in her diet,” he says, looking at Amy.

“Aren’t you going to write a C on her?” Amy says snidely.

“Sure.” He draws a C on Amy’s hand with his felt-tip marker.

She draws a P on his forearm in return.

“Do I have a face for porn, Amy?” he asks, tongue doing a number on that pen cap, which happens to be pink.

“TIME!” James shouts.

“We’re being timed?” Dad says in protest. “No one said anything about being timed. That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Jason,” James crows. “Let’s get the answers. Marie? Where’s the sheet of answers?”

“I’m still trying to think of a good prize.” Mom looks at me.

I shrug.

“Here,” James says. “I found it. The answers are...”

As he starts to announce them, I yank on Mom’s sweater and get her alone. “Mom! What the hell is this?”

“It’s a game.”

“You brought porn into my baby shower.”

“In good fun! Besides, natural childbirth can encompass orgasmic birth. I read it in one of your books. So porn is just one step away from birth.”

“That is gross.”

“You need to lighten up, honey.”

“I’ve gained forty pounds, Mom. No shit.”

“That’s constipation, dear.”

“AHA!” James shouts. “BINGO! Five in a row right!”

“AHA HA HA!” Agnes says right after. “DOUBLE BINGO!” She holds her sheet aloft. She’s right.

“Damn!” James sighs, holding his hand to her. “Congratulations.” He peers at her page. “You got every single constipation answer right.”

“You get to be my age, buddy, you know a woman’s C face. It’s a skill.”

Is Declan retching?

Dad looks at Dec, then me, and starts gathering the papers quickly. “Let’s move on to a simple, more traditional game. Amy? Can you get the notecards?”

“But Jason,” Mom protests. “We didn’t figure out who is number two.”

Pam groans.

“Now,” Dad says, ignoring her, “I want you all to write down your best guess for Shannon’s actual date she’ll give birth. After the shower, we’ll email everyone to tell them who won.”

“Delayed gratification is not my strong suit,” James mumbles, choosing a drink instead of a card.

The mood in the room shifts to a friendlier, happier tone as people grab cookies and fudge from strategically placed trays and scribble their answers.

Dad sends a small bowl around to collect, then sorts the cards into piles, based on dates. One of them makes him pause, eyebrows up.

“Who guessed Shannon would go a full week past her due date?” he asks.

“Me,” Pam says, slowly raising her hand.

“A week!” I laugh. “I know first babies can take a little longer, but a week?”

“It’s an outlier guess,” James says.

“Actually, no,” Pam replies. “It’s based on slightly more than that.”

“Don’t tell me actuaries can use data to predict when a woman will give birth?” James scoffs.

“Mmm, a little bit analysis, a little bit intuition,” Pam says with a laugh. “Slightly better than an educated guess. But I hope I’m wrong,” she adds quickly. “I hope you go on your due date.”

“Last game! Then presents!” Mom says. “And this game EVERYONE needs to play, except for Declan and Shannon.”

“Why does he get out of the game?” Andrew says in a tone that makes me know exactly what he sounded like when he was twelve.

“Because for this game, you take one of the big cards, and you give Shannon and Declan a piece of parenting advice.”

“What if we’re not parents?”

“You’ve been parented, right? Give advice based on that. We’ll collect these cards and they will go in a scrapbook for the baby, along with the other mementos from today.”

“Not the Labor, Porn, or Constipation game,” Dec says firmly.

“I don’t even want to know what kind of party favors Mom came up with for that.” I make an executive decision. “Time for cake.”

“But everyone’s supposed to write parenting advice for us.”

“I don’t mean time for them to have cake. Time for me to have cake.”

He laughs, hand on the small of my back, the only part of me that is still small. “Agreed.”

We’re finishing off two slices of Mom’s king cake with vanilla cream cheese frosting and an amazing caramel sauce that Mom made when Dad comes into the kitchen and laughs at us.

“You’re hiding,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he understands.

“We’re carb loading,” I explain. “For birth. It’s like running a marathon.”

“But you’re not due for five weeks.”

“You can never be overprepared for labor.” As I bite down, a hard plastic baby figurine hits my tooth, sending a ripple of pain through my jaw. I spit it out. Dad laughs. Dec just shakes his head.

If only labor were so easy.

Dad grabs a slice and pours sauce over it. “Very true. I remember when your mother gave birth to you. You were the easy one.”

“I was?” I know the story, but Dec leans in, suddenly interested.

“You were. Marie had no idea she was in labor. Said it just felt like a big rubber band being stretched inside her. So different from Carol, where she felt every pain.”

“What happened?”

“Shannon was damn near born on the Mass Pike in our 1985 Chevy Celebrity.”

He winces. “Yikes.”

“I know,” I say. “Can you imagine if I’d been born on the highway?”

“That would have been awful, but I’m more troubled by the fact that your parents owned a Chevy Celebrity.”

Dad steals Declan’s piece of cake from him. “Hey, now.”

Mom appears, flushed and hyper. “There you two are! The guests of honor. Come into the living room–we’re opening presents!”

“Shouldn’t we open the presents?” Dec asks.

“We’re doing it without you if you don’t get your asses in here!” She flounces out.

Dad sighs. “It isn’t a big party until Marie gets upset.”

We migrate into the living room, where Mom has two chairs reserved for us, with crowns on them.

“I am not wearing that,” Dec says flatly.

“I want to wear it,” Tyler declares.

Declan takes the opening, puts it on Tyler’s head, and grins. “Tyler makes a great king.”

There’s that Christian Bale smile again.

Mom puts my crown firmly on my head, giving Declan a glare filled with mixed signals. “Let’s start!”

The room is filled with gifts, big and small. I know Mom and Dad got us the stroller/carseat combination we wanted, and Carol and Amy went in on a side-sleeper attachment for our bed. James gives us a card with a big check in it. Amanda and Andrew offer babysitting services and a session with a very popular family photographer in Boston who doesn’t have an opening until 2021 – but now magically does, for us. Terry’s gift is a promise of a portrait of the baby from an artist friend.

It’s awkward, having my middle class family and our middle class friends mixed with Declan’s family filled with people who could drop a year of my Dad’s salary on a single gift for our baby and not even blink. We just don’t talk about it. Declan and I have a tacit agreement that whatever each family gives or does is to be respected. No comparisons. Even James is good on this point, but Dec says that’s only because he’s convinced himself that he always gives the biggest gift.

Whatever.

Everyone has been generous and kind, and as we open the presents and ooohhh and aaahhhh, I start to get used to the attention, the baby moving slowly inside me as if he’s reveling in it, too. Agnes and Corrine give us beautiful hand-crocheted baby blankets and sweaters, everything matching in a gorgeous blue. Josh and Greg give us boxes of diapers, breastfeeding supplies I’m certain Greg’s wife actually bought, and a little rainbow outfit I can’t wait to put on Finn.

Pam’s gift is an intricate baby book system for keeping track of milestones, and a new instant camera that prints actual photos, so we can put the pictures right in the baby book.

As the presents pile up, Amy keeps a written list of who gave what for thank-you notes.

I’m teary and grateful, but I’m also exhausted.

“This one’s for you to open,” Carol says, handing a big, flat box to Declan.

“You already got us something!” I protest, knowing Carol’s broke, so any gift to us is money she can’t spend on herself or the boys.

She holds her finger to her lips. “Shhh. You’ll see.”

“Please tell me this has nothing to do with labor, orgasms, or...” he pauses, swallowing hard, “...constipation.”

“Nope!”

“I knew you were my favorite sister-in-law.”

“Hey!” Amy protests. “What about me?”

“It’s a tie.”

“Ever the diplomat,” Carol says, laughing.

“No. I’m just a married man who should know better.” With a smile, Declan opens the gift, his grin turning to puzzlement when he lifts the top of the box. Two gold rings, the diameter of a baby’s head, are sewn into a loop of fabric, tie-dyed in a fabulous Grateful Dead-style rainbow.

“Uh, thank you?” he says to Carol.

Dad lets out a cheer. “The baby wrap!”

“The baby what?” Dec asks, looking at me for clarification.

“It’s for wearing the baby,” I explain.

“Wearing the baby? Like one of those carriers?” He holds his hands out front. “The ones that look like the baby is bungee jumping?”

Mom goes around the corner into the family room, and before I can explain to Declan what’s in the box, she has a photo album in her hands.

“This is how you wear a baby.” She peels a big photograph from one of the pages and hands it to Dec. I look over her shoulder.

“Oh, geez, Marie. Look at how young we were,” Dad marvels. “I haven’t seen that picture in years.”

In the photograph, Dad is standing near a big window, baby Jeffrey balanced on his hip, grinning like a madly teething, happy baby. The baby wrap is over Dad’s shoulder, firmly securing Jeffrey to him.

Dad’s grin matches the baby’s, minus the teething part.

“Is that me?” Tyler asks, pointing to the baby.

“No, Ty. That’s Jeffrey.” Dad touches his whiskers, suddenly nostalgic. “Only eleven years ago, huh? Jeffrey was about six months there. I had a lot less grey in my beard.”

“And a lot more hair on your head,” Jeffrey adds.

“Thanks, kid,” Dad mumbles, but in an affectionate way.

We all laugh.

“I kept this,” Carol says softly. “I have so many memories of my kids being carried by me, by Dad, by Mom and Shannon and Amy. I wanted to pass it on to you.”

I choke up as I realize she doesn’t mention the boys’ father, Todd. He thought baby wearing was for–his words–“pansy-ass guys who don’t know how to take charge.”

I look at my very take-charge husband, who pulls the long, flowing fabric out, holding the rings in one hand. I hold my breath. Which way is this going to go?

“Show me,” he says to Carol. “How do I wear this?”

Mom’s eyes catch mine. We both exhale.

Told you, she mouths.

“Wait,” he says, as Carol starts wrapping it, the rings on his left shoulder, the fabric going through like a cotton belt. “Don’t you want to keep it?”

“Why?”

“In case you have more children.”

Carol gives him a sad, complex look and whispers, “No. This has served my little family well, Declan. Let me pass it on.”

He gives her a hug, the rings clinking.

And now Mom and I are crying.

Fitting it just so, Carol finishes and takes a step back.

“Now you need to have a baby to fill it!” Jeffrey says.

Dec reaches for my belly and rubs it. “Working on that.”

“You could wear Chuckles in it, for practice,” Amy says.

“I like my skin where it is, Amy,” Dec replies.

Hamish walks in and does a double take at his cousin. “If that were made of the McCormick tartan, I’d think ye were in formal Highland dress.”

“Can we get one in McCormick tartan?” Mom asks him. “Because that would be amazing for Jason to wear when we’re babysitting and out for walks!”

“You’re not a McCormick,” James reminds her.

“No. But the baby is,” she shoots back.

“Fair enough,” he says, conceding the point.

“Speaking of McCormick tartan,” Hamish says, clearing his throat and handing me a wrapped box, “why don’t ye open this one next?”

Inside is a onesie... in McCormick tartan.

“Oh!” I gasp, tearing up for the nineteenth time. “It’s adorable!” There’s a gift card for a very posh baby store on Newbury Street as well.

“Thank you,” Dec says. “He’ll look good in it.”

“He? I wouldn’t be so sure. I dinna get the one with ribbons and lace, but I was sorely tempted.”

“We know it’s a boy,” Declan says amiably. “We had an ultrasound.”

“We? We didn’t drink a gallon of water and lay on a table while having an ultrasound wand turned into a Titanic submarine expedition,” I grumble.

Hamish ignores me and laughs at Declan. “Ye know about our side of the family, no? Since the ultrasound became a part of pregnancy, it’s been wrong for every single McCormick child.”

“What?” James interrupts. “I haven’t heard anything about this.”

“At first, it was just a fluke. Then it became a pattern. Without fail, if a woman in the family is told she’s carrying a boy, it’s born a girl. If told a girl, it’s born a boy.” Hamish looks at all the blue clothes and accessories in the room. “I dinna know if the same happens here, but she’ll look fine in that sky color as well. Sapphire suits all babies.”

The room laughs.

“You think I’m joking? Just wait.” Hamish grins, his hand held up in a toast. “To the mystery of birth.”

Dec holds his glass high as well, and adds, “To family!”

We all drink, my seltzer water turning salty as I cry.

To family, indeed.