There’s a brioche in the oven. I am preggers. Up the duff. With Child. In the family way. B.O.B. There are so many ways I can say it but despite my increasing resemblance to Humpty Dumpty I still find it hard to believe. First of all I was told I had ovaries that resembled home-made onion bhajis (polycystic if you want the technical term) this time last year and that it would be extremely difficult for me to get
pregnant and secondly I can’t believe we actually committed to a plan! We as a
couple got decisive! (this is not a euphemism for got jiggy, although that too was surprising). After umming and
ahhing over whether to have child number three for about three years and
boring my friends, strangers and up market shoe designers (no one escaped) senseless
with my dilemma over stopping at two or making a party with three, we actually did it.
I am of course absolutely delighted but I
am also BRICKING IT! How am I going to cope with those sleepless, freeze-dried eyeballed, endless days and nights now that I am no longer shall we
say a spring chicken? Will I remember anything useful? Will my boobs finally plummet to my navel? Will I be thrown off the
career ladder? Will my pelvic floor be shot to actual ribbons? Do I really have to go to sing, clap and play club again? Will this baby be the one who actually embraces
sleep? Third time lucky? I think I might have already used up my lucky points…
