Has it really been nearly three months since My Special F***ing Day? Pete and I are still floating around on a cloud of romance and togetherness, enjoying our newfound intimacy and ignoring the fact we're basically now broke.
Still, the wedding was well worth the effort. Even though it cost more money and generated more stress, arguments and sleepless nights than I could have imagined.
I now realise this was just training for the next 18 years.
Yes, it turns out I'm pregnant. I've got three plastic sticks soaked in urine to prove it.
I did the first test this morning. While waiting for the result, I tried imagining how I'd feel if it was positive. Elated, no doubt. I'd surely let out a gasp of happiness at the miracle of life as tears of joy rolled down my rosy cheeks.
I picked up the stick.
"****," I said.
I sat down and tried not to be sick.
Of course I was elated and happy and all that too. It just feels a bit odd, being pregnant, having tried really hard not to be for most of the past 15 years.
I couldn't wait to tell Pete but it was only 7am and I didn't want to wake him up too early. So I decided it would be better to wait a while.
At 7.04am I was sitting on the edge of the bed, waving the pregnancy test. Pete opened his eyes.
"I'm having a baby," I said.
"Oh," said Pete. He yawned.
Following a somewhat extensive discussion, Pete has realised this was not quite the reaction I was expecting. He says he is of course excited and overjoyed, and appreciates just how momentous an event this is.
He merely requests that if I ever have news like this to tell him again, I allow him to reach full consciousness first rather than waking him up by waving a plastic stick soaked in urine in his face.
Anyway, I've told him I'm pretty sure it's his.
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