I'm Simon Cowell

Among other things, I attended a baby shower this weekend.

Well, not technically a BABY shower, but a shower (okay, luncheon) for a mother-to-be for the third time anyway.

I am not sure how you all feel about celebrating each and every entrance of the members of your family, but I do (know how I feel, that is). I think there should be balloons and streamers and games and confetti and, of course, cake every time a new child arrives. I think to heck with “etiquette” and fear of overdoing it, have a party! Celebrate, for goodness sake. I don’t care if it is the 2nd or the 22nd (although by the time the later rolls around, we might just be celebrating on the geriatric floor with the Guinness Book of World Records people hovering nearby).

And celebrate is what we did.

But baby showers are tricky when the “baby” in question is 7-years-old.

You can’t wrap toilet paper around the mother-to-be’s belly.

You can’t play “name the baby”.

You can’t attempt to identify melted chocolate bars in teeny tiny diapers (tacky anyway).

And you can’t “oooooh” and “aaaaaah” over little pink booties.

You can’t trade stories of your birth and whether or not you had an episiotomy (and to what degree?).

You can’t complain about who’s husband is the worse diaper changer, or who gets up with the baby in the middle of the night, or how sick you are of visiting the bathroom every eighteen minutes.

But you can celebrate the mom-to-be.

You can wrap your arms around her and let her know that you are here for her, as she approaches motherhood yet again, for the third and final time.

You can discuss how big the “baby” will be, hearing stories of how she and her husband had to bring a ruler with them to the shoe store and count out 6 ½ inches; as close as possible to the right size shoe for their new daughter.

You can listen to your friend explain how this process will differ from the last, and you can hope that she knows that although you won’t be with her during her trip to China in body, you will be in spirit – every minute of it.

You can look at the pictures of your niece-to-be hanging everywhere and you can wonder “what will she be like?” and “I hope she likes me.”.

You can play fun games, where the luncheon hostess places the name of a celebrity on everyone’s back and you have to guess who you are by asking only “yes” or “no” questions.

You are a man.

You are “kinda good looking” according to your friend.

You are over 40-years-old, and you are not a singer or an actor.

You are not an athlete.

You are not a journalist, but you are on tv. . . a lot.

You are not liked very well.

You think you are the President, but everyone assures you that you aren’t.

You ask if you are the President at least 10 times.

You are a jerk.

“Are you sure that I’m not the President?”

You give up, and then you get it.

You are Simon Cowell.

Duh.

And you get to eat decadent, rich and sinful chocolate cake with your friend, the mother-to-be for the third (and final, right?) time.

Because you can’t have a baby shower without any cake, after all.

Congratulations, mommy-to-be.