Today’s post slays me. It’s actually about wedding planning (or really, the under-discussed art of relationship planning, ha). But it’s also about exes, the stalking power of Facebook, reconciling our past with our future, and the insanity of doodling your future children’s names on a notebook in high school (or is that just me?). And NO I’m not going to tell you what names I doodled, because of course I’m worried you might steal them (the fact that David hates them is neither here nor there). So now I give you Katie, and her Someday Baby.
When you are planning a wedding, it’s all about your past. Yes, it’s also about your future with your partner, but really it’s a celebration of the time spent with your chosen partner, the love that’s grown between you, and toasting the partnership that you’ve cultivated.
And since weddings are inherently past-driven, it is guaranteed that you will think about your exes. It’s just natural. And not even in a “What might have been?” way, but more as a reflection on how this wedding is a culmination of all of the lessons learned in your romantic life up until this point. But there is a downside to all of this philosophical introspection. It is called “The Facebook.” (I can hear about half of you out there reading this saying out loud, “Oooohh, I know where this is going…” It’s like a horror movie; even if you don’t know how it’s going to happen, you know it ain’t gonna be pretty.)
I was on The Facebook earlier this week and happened to see a post about my ex-boyfriend, who I dated long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away (read: college). We don’t speak, but we have a couple mutual friends, so it’s not uncommon to see him pop up every so often. So, I saw a photo of him and noticed, hey, there’s a baby in it. Now, I know what you’re thinking—”Oh, God, no!”—but I already know for a fact that he a) is married; b) has a son; and c) still wears high-waisted pants like a ’90s sitcom dad. Good for him, on all counts.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I thought, “He’s had another baby!” Owning my stalkerish impulses, I clicked on the album. (“Don’t open that door! Don’t go up those stairs! Idiot!!!”) I scrolled through the photos, stopping on one of a dark-haired, pink little bundle in a car seat. “Aww, a baby girl!” (“Turn back!”) And then I read the caption: (“Don’t do it!!!“) ”Sophia Rose*___, born on ___. Welcome to the world!”
No way. The air sucked right out of me. No way. He did not just name his baby girl that name. (“AHHHHH!!!!!!”) He stole my name. Not my actual name, mind you. The name that I picked out for my daughter. But not my real daughter—my Someday Baby. Continue reading And Facebook Makes Three