My detest for baby showers can be traced back to Guam in 2010. There’s not a lot to do on an island that can be explored in four hours, so you can just imagine how many baby showers I attended during my two-and-a-half-year stint there.

The family broke out all the traditional games: measuring the belly, taking your guess as to when the baby will be born, and sharing mommy confessions—still a weird one, but I digress. And then they hit me with something new, er, at least new to me: melting candy bars and smearing them into diapers. You can imagine my surprise at having a melted-down Snickers bar.

As I was handed my diaper and started sliding my tongue against the grainy chocolate, it hit me: Baby showers should be ducking outlawed.

Now fast forward—my God— 15 years later (that kid is now a freshman in high school!!) and my feelings toward baby showers haven’t really changed. If anything, they’ve maybe grown a little more cynical. And while this is the year that I intend on being pregnant (gotta manifest, right?), I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want…and it will not, under any circumstances include a baby shower.

Let me explain:

Does This Have Anything to Do With My Mom?

You’d think so—but it doesn’t. Well, not entirely.

When I was planning my wedding, hindsight reminded me that it was entirely too soon to do so. I was suffering a mental block— I did not and could not—see anything past my reality, which was: my mother’s dead, I miss her, and I want her back. The idea of doing anything without her, even if she was only a part of it via a text update was devastating and I wanted nothing to do with it.

But planning, having, and attending a baby shower doesn’t feel the same way. Maybe it’s because by the time I’d be a candidate for one, she will have been gone for nearly a decade and I’ve just gotten used to living life without her. But, at the same token, will I miss her? Undoubtedly. A girl needs her mom when she becomes one herself. Having to navigate pregnancy and motherhood without her, if I can be blunt, will suck.

But, missing her accounts for 5—maybe 10% of why I don’t want a baby shower. What about the other 90 to 95%?

What About My Anxiety And Discomfort From Being the Center of Attention? Does it Account for the Other 90%?

The answer: Slightly. I mean, this is the same girl who joined the cheerleading squad in second grade and at the end of the game, was asked by her parents: “Why did you stand behind another girl all night? We couldn’t see you.”

Don’t get me wrong— I’ve always enjoyed attention. But it’s the kind of attention that came with having my paper used as an example of “what to do” in class, making Dean’s List, or opening the email announcing that my latest article was finally published. It was the kind of attention that came with my parents complimenting every art piece, article, or idea I came up with. Needless to say, it was not attention derived from team sports or the dance scene. In fact, I was always put in time out because I refused to do group numbers in public. Call it stage fright as a kid and anxiety as an adult. The bottom line is that I’ve always hated being the center of attention— and nowhere is that more commonplace than at a baby shower.

The last one I attended cemented this for me. I was seated at a table downwind from a cackling group of ladies who were, indeed, quite insufferable, as they swapped stories of their pristine motherhood judgments. When my friend waddled over, hand resting on her giant belly, she was hit— no— bombarded with questions:

What kind of sheets are you going to put in the crib?
Will they be hypoallergenic?
Are you going to swaddle?
Are you using a crib or a bassinet?
Oh, you don’t have hypoallergenic sheets? I will send you the ones I used for my son when he was a baby!
Are you going to breastfeed or bottle feed?

It was like a lightning round of 20 Questions or my mom interrogating my date when I brought them over for introductions.

When she turned to look at me, I could just sense the overwhelm—and of course! She’s eight months pregnant—exhausted, scared, and riddled with anxiety over bringing a baby into this world. And the last thing she probably wants is old, worn-down hypoallergenic sheets from a co-worker in her 50s.

When she waddled off, I stopped any light, mindless chatter with them. It got under my skin that much. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how rude they all were and just how pointless that whole thing was. Who were these ladies? Why were they here? And, more importantly, why was it important that they were?

This point is likely to upset those of a certain generation, and perhaps, maybe my millennial counterparts as well. After all, we were brought up by a generation that believed in traditional operations. It’s why at both my first and second wedding, I had to invite my parent’s neighbors. It’s why cousins you barely know, extended relatives, co-workers, and neighbors are always included on the guest list— not having them there is an insult. However, I think inviting people you’re merely acquaintances with to the biggest milestones of your life is an insult to your day.

Let me explain.

Special Moments Deserve to be Spent With Special People

When I think back to my wedding, there were a lot of people there that I was just acquaintances with. Does it mean I don’t like them? No. However, my time was spent taking photos with them and swapping pleasantries instead of hanging out with my husband. Instead of hanging out with my dad. Instead of hanging out with my best friends.

I was interrupted during dinner. I didn’t get to eat any of my cake. Those pistachio and rose-flavored macarons I picked out? Yeah, I requested them to be sent home with me and instead, the caterer threw them out. At midnight, on our way home, we stopped at McDonald’s and scarfed down chicken nuggets. We also only have one selfie we snapped together.

Nearly seven years removed from that day, I’ve experienced growth. And if growth taught me anything, it’s that special moments deserve to be spent with special people. Full stop. I may not have had an opportunity for a do-over back then, but I can certainly make adjustments when I have a baby.

And the truth is that I don’t want to spend any time, forcing people into playing games they don’t enjoy (seriously who thought having everyone eat cold, smashed green beans out of a jar is a good idea?), and forcing conversation with people who, let’s be real: are not going to play an active role in my child’s life.

Because ask yourself: how many co-workers are referred to as auntie? How many times have your next-door neighbors bought a Christmas gift for your son?

I’d be surprised if anyone raised their hand and said, “Ooooh, me!”

Many people in the older generation, will probably argue in favor of the traditional baby shower claiming that it’s inclusive to everyone. But it’s not. It’s a day, much like a wedding, that is a spectacle for those in attendance.

It’s why I don’t want a baby shower, but instead…propose this:

When I’m in my fifth or sixth month of pregnancy, I want my friends to fly to Florida for the weekend. Instead of baby shower games, we can go out to dinner, celebrating not the impending arrival of my little one but rather, how fortunate we’ve been to be a part of so many seasons; celebrating how many versions of one another we’ve witnessed—and this belly just one of many.

I want, when I’m seven or eight months along, my in-laws to fly in and help us set up and decorate the nursery. I want us to wash the clothes we can’t believe will be on a scrunched-up, squiggly little baby in another month or two. I want us to hang them up, fold socks in the first drawer of their dresser, and hang up shelves to display the baby book collection we’ve been stockpiling for years. I also want my mother-in-law to spend the first few weeks with us after the baby’s born — to show us the ropes, to offer insight, to bond, and selfishly, to hear a motherly figure say they’re proud of me.

My distaste for baby showers isn’t because of what they represent. They represent celebration and love and I get that. However, for me, love is celebrated intimately. I have asked myself, what’s the better moment: having a baby shower where I get to spend the majority of my time talking to random people, paying a fortune, and watching the hours slip by as fast as minutes — or having heartwarming conversations with my husband and in-laws as we display stuffed animals and artwork? My mother-in-law actually being a part of her son’s new adventure in real-time, for the real moments—not the ones that are crafted to paint a lovely picture on Facebook? Getting to be the involved grandma she deserves to be. I want that. My husband wants that. And I’m sure she wants that.

At the end of the day, I’m calling Nikkey when something good happens. I’m calling Helen when my anxiety is too high. I’m texting my dreams to Amanda, so we can analyze them. When I need support, I’m texting Megan, knowing she’s a millisecond away from responding the moment my name pops up on her phone. I’m calling Sara and Janie and Jamie, and Rebecca when I need help and insight or a laugh. I’m texting Rachel about Anthropologie outlets, design trends we love, and how sexy Mr. Napkin Head still is after all these years. I’m texting Ariel for guidance and automatic, immediate companionship. I’m texting Lisa to vent and get nostalgic. And I’m texting Jordan when we want to take a stroll down memory lane.

When good news blossoms, I’m not calling extended relatives or co-workers. When I need advice or am going through a hardship, I’m not flagging down the neighbors or my best friend’s siblings. I’m going to my circle. The circle I grew up with. The circle that will invite me in every time and the circle I am proud to have my (future) kids refer to as their aunts and uncles.

Because big or small, the only people I want to share life with are those who have gone through life with me. They’re the ones that deserve a seat at the table.

For the special moments.
And all of them in between.