I glanced at the invitation, stroking a finger over the shiny silver and blue stripes. The teddy bear applique was sweet. I looked at the date and sighed. If it were almost anyone else in the world, I would have sent my regrets and a thoughtful gift. Attending this party required a 600-mile round trip with a 3-year-old and a toddler, and would be bookended by close-of-the-school-year madness. The idea alone was exhausting. I massaged the bridge of my nose.
I knew we had to go. This baby naming was hosted by one of my husband’s closest friends. They had grown up together, through high school and college, into careers and relationships. They served as best men at each other’s weddings. (His wife is actually the reason my marriage is legal. When my overwhelmed fiancé left our marriage license at home, she sped to retrieve it before the start of the ceremony.) Our firstborn daughters are three months apart, and they are already friends. They talk sometimes over Skype, proud dads grinning in the background.
I glanced at the invitation again. Wait a minute–a baby naming? For a boy?
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