In the cosmos of looping Instagram videos that reliably capture my attention—military personnel returning home and surprising their children at school, the best Amazon finds for your house, massage-therapy videos, teeth cleanings—there is one category that brings forth every available emotion at once—excitement! Occasionally, secondhand embarrassment. Whether I am scrolling in the middle of the night during a bout of insomnia induced by having four children in five years, or simply because staring at one’s phone has become part and parcel of avoiding virtually every actual task, I find myself watching these videos for longer than I should be allowed to.
They all usually begin in chaos and confusion. The only indication of what is about to happen is that the mother is usually wearing white, a choice I find baffling, given that many reveals involve pyrotechnic eruptions of pink or blue powder capable of permanently altering both a dress and the surrounding ecosystem. Then comes the countdown, sometimes sung in chorus by a gathering crowd and other times only involving the parents and the already-born kids.
After a few seconds, the elaborate unveiling (yes, it’s always elaborate) takes center stage: cakes and balloons share screen time with fireworks, sports cars and industrial quantities of colored gas. Some reveals are so theatrical that you would be forgiven for assuming they were announcing something even more consequential than the sex of a baby—perhaps the selection of a new pope? Some examples: the video of a man, presumably the father, running directly through a wall constructed for the occasion, emerging triumphantly through a cloud of pink smoke.
Another one involves a couple standing beneath a helicopter as it releases colored powder over an entire field. I’ve seen exploding golf balls, boxing gloves that produce smoke upon impact, and elaborate domino arrangements that seem to require more planning than the eventual nursery. No matter the sex of the baby or the extravagancy of the revelation, I tear up.
Is it because I know I am finished having children? Do I regret not going crazy with my own gender reveals, which consisted of my husband and me opening an envelope at an Indian restaurant in midtown Manhattan? Is it the perpetually emotional music playing in the background that makes me cry?
Why is it never, say, "Whoomp! (There It Is)" by Tag Team? Is it because I find myself studying the fathers’ faces when the smoke turns pink for the third time, examining every twitch like a forensic expert assigned to the microexpressions beat? Perhaps it’s a little bit of everything.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
