When intimacy becomes outmacy

Published Oct 13, 2015

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Cape Town - In this increasingly narcissistic world of over-sharing, there are many things that are disturbing: Miley Cyrus flashing her nipples on Instagram, entire blogs about how to heal armpit fungus, YouTube videos of turtles having sex with shoes (it’s real, look it up) and Facebook pages filled with minute-by-minute status updates about how dreadful the world is and how awful the sandwiches were at the conference and how wonderful that monk was who sold his Ferrari and how lonely it is to be the only person in the office with a Simply Red obsession.

However, one of the most disturbing modern-day trends – besides cauliflower mash and the use of the word “lifestyle” to advertise anything from funeral parlours to Elastoplasts – has to be the Baby Gender Reveal party.

I only heard about it last week and in between Googling other disturbing phenomena (“What is Donald Trump?” and “Why is Hlaudi Motsoeneng?”) I discovered how the whole thing works. The expectant parents go to the gynaecologist. The scan shows the gynaecologist the sex of the baby. The gynaecologist keeps it secret and either writes it on a piece of paper and puts it in an envelope, or sends the sex directly to a bakery.

If the sex hasn’t been sent directly to the bakery, the expectant parents take the unopened envelope to the bakery and a cake is then made with a centre of either blue or pink. The expectant parents then invite friends and family to a party at which they cut the cake and cry and hug each other when they discover their baby’s sex and then, presumably, feed each other cake, just like they do in wedding movies.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a good party. Point me to the bar and the Chipniks and within an hour I’ll be doing the moonwalk to It’s Raining Men.

I am also partial to a well-formed baby. In fact, I recently became a godmother and one of my favourite things is to sit with Alice in my arms and sing her songs in cat language.

However, there’s something faintly tacky and decidedly 21st century (the bad part) about a public, colour-coded event for such a private and intimate moment. Who knows, soon we’ll be having Look How My C-Section Scar Has Healed parties.

During my online research, I discovered not only that Donald Trump is part wombat, part flokati rug, I also found myriad sites with ideas on how to throw the Best Gender Reveal Party Ever. They include serving pink and blue cocktails, putting pink and blue towels in the guest bathroom, and having pink and blue napkins, plates and cups. So far, so pink and blue. However the weirdest suggestion was having a raffle to see who can guess the baby’s name. The winners could receive a hamper! Or a weekend away! Or vouchers for the local mall!

Last week I overheard a pregnant woman describing her baby gender reveal party (that’s the other weird thing about the parties – they’re called “gender reveal parties”, but sex and gender are two different concepts). She said as she cut the cake in front of 60 people, blue crumbs spilled out. Her heart sank and she fell apart and cried, and then felt embarrassed about falling apart and crying. She had hoped for a girl. I initially felt compassionate towards her, and then I thought: why in hell would you put yourself through that hell if you knew it might be hell?

I got my answer from the very helpful, pink-and-blue-themed websites. They all advise documenting the event. One even suggests hiring a professional photographer and taking Polaroid pictures of guests on which they can write “special wishes” to the new baby. (Note to expectant parents: babies can’t read. In fact, from what I’ve learnt from Alice, they don’t do much for the first few months besides deprive you of sleep, turn your nipples into bark, poo a lot and cry for no reason. It’s hardly a fairytale, never mind a well-baked fairy cake.)

In a world of social media, Likes and perfection projections, it seems we are no longer able to celebrate something without it being witnessed. We turn events into Things so they can be validated and therefore exist with some sense of significance and a neat milestone attached. Intimacy has been replaced with outmacy (it’s not a real word yet, but watch this space), and private excitement has been replaced by public enticement. And don’t get me started on the sex ascriptions of blue and pink. I’m sure if they could speak, there are tons of babies out there who would prefer black, or grey, or violent beige.

And when Tristan or Chloe is 13, how will he or she feel when they discover that creepy Uncle Deon went on a weekend to Sun City because he correctly guessed their name in a raffle? What will Tristan think when he sees photos of his mother weeping while cutting a cake because she had wanted a girl? How will Chloe feel when she discovers that stash of Polaroids from strangers, who may or may not be from Amanzimtoti, with messages wishing her a joyous and abundant life?

On Saturday, I held Alice and looked at mulberry trees. I thought about silk worms. I wondered about silk: are there factories in China filled with worms? Do they gather the silk directly from their bottoms or do they spin the cocoons? I kissed Alice’s fuzzy head and stared at her face. I gave her my thumb to hold. Her fingernails are so tiny. I rocked back and forth and sang her a meow-meow song. I thought I saw her smile but it was probably just wind. She wriggled and her face made funny shapes. She yawned, closed her eyes and fell asleep. The breeze lifted leaves. We shared a moment. And it wasn’t for sale.

Cape Argus

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