The gist is that there is some new trend in babymaking rituals that involves learning the sex of your baby via baked goods. (Yes, for real.)
Congratulations--it's a Smurf!
(image via A Tender Crumb)
Here's how it goes down:
1. You make your doctor write the baby's gender on a scrap of paper (I'm guessing s/he may substitute the Prince symbol if the ultrasound is inconclusive) and then seal it in an envelope.
2. You hand the envelope to a baker, who probably thinks you are trying to involve him/her in a human trafficking ring, since customers usually request buttercream or fondant instead of "GIRL."
3. You pick up the pink or blue cake, which is covered with white icing so as to hide the delicious gonad-determining food coloring within.
4. You try to look happy as you learn, in front of a gathering of your family and friends, whether you'll be spending the rest of your life fearing passing on body image issues or male pattern baldness.
5. You eat your baby's junk. Metaphorically.
I don't know about this. It's harmless enough, but it's a slippery slope. I mean, how long until women are slipping notes to their caterers and lifting silver lids to reveal platters of pigs in blankets (boy) or clams (girl)?
How long before women start throwing pregnancy test parties, illustrated with hidden layers of jam?
Those parties would have a 50% chance of being really depressing.
How long before multiple births get announced with the aid of Puppy Surprise?
Actually, that idea is awesome. Let's do that.
ALSO: Children of the 80s: Did any of you EVER get more than three puppies in a Puppy Surprise? The tagline was "There could be three... or four... or five!" except there were never five. I feel used.