I’ve had to learn to accept that gender reveal parties are a real thing that people do, despite not really understanding the point. I will never accept, however, that people actually want gifts for these things.
Sure, knowing the sex of your child falls into the BFD category-at least, it did for me, but I was acutely aware that no one else really cared except for me, my husband, and his parents. People asked, of course, but it was a polite way to make conversation. I know this to be true because I told multiple people multiple times that I was having a girl, and then the next time they saw me they would ask again.
Since that time, I’ve been introduced to the world of gender reveals, politely attending more and more, each a little more elaborate and Pinterest-y than the last. I’ve sat quietly in my chair with something that is never alcohol at an event that should never not serve alcohol. I’ve casted ballots, been forced to choose blue cupcakes or pink cupcakes, and pretended to care when the proud parents sliced open a cake to reveal that-surprise!-their child had genitals of one kind or another. I’ve clapped, congratulated, and then abruptly forgotten all about their fetus’ gonads on my way out the door.
Fine. I’ll do all of that and more as a show of support. What I won’t do is bring you a gift. You don’t deserve a gift for making me choose either a mustache or a pair of lips to pin to my t-shirt. If anything, I deserve a gift for not ruining your carpet by stabbing a fork into my eye. But I digress.
Lots of people endure the charade of the gender reveal with the understanding that hey, at least you aren’t expected to bring a gift.
This weekend, I stumbled upon a facebook rant about how rude it is to show up empty handed at a vagina or penis unveiling, and it caused me to plunge into a deep internet rabbit hole. No, I thought. This can’t be a thing.
This is a thing.
First you have to order invitations that let everyone know that you want presents:
Of course, this raises the obvious question: how will my guests know not to get me gross yellow stuff?
Fortunately, there’s an easy solution:
suckers party guests to bring a receipt so you can trade the crap they brought you for cold hard cash or something less ugly.
I’m not into open letters, but I’m making an exception today because sometimes we must fight oblivious douchebaggery with oblivious douchebaggery.
It is in that spirit that I’d like to address this part of my post to the couples who I will refer to as Parents Registering In Consideration of their Kid’s Sex, or PRICKS.
Thanks for inviting me to your gender reveal party, for which I see you are registered at Target, Babies ‘R’ Us, and because you have balls of pure titanium, Pottery Barn. It seems like it was only yesterday that I was picking out that housewarming gift you wanted, which wasn’t so hard, considering that you helpfully suggested I purchase whatever was left of your wedding registry, which you created shortly after that bridal shower I attended that was right on the heels of the engagement party you threw yourselves. I’m looking forward to the invitation I’ll receive for the baby shower in a few months, complete with the url to your baby page, where I’ll be presented with a click through link to your Amazon wishlist. And while I simply can’t wait to pop balloons full of pink or blue confetti while I pretend to be positively beside myself in anticipation regarding whatever stupid name you’re going to pick, please know that on the off chance that I actually show up, it won’t be with gift. I know this looks like I’m saying that I’m a thoughtless party guest, but you mustn’t think that! What I’m really saying is “fuck you, no one cares about your kid’s junk.”