Two things have happened lately that are going to change my life.
The first, is that my sister Fluffy recently sent me a koala onesie for my birthday.
If you’ve never tried one on, you’re missing out. It’s like zipping yourself up into a whole new world of soft, safe, fluffy joy. I have to admit, I am also the proud owner of a zebra-print Snuggi (otherwise known as the blanket with sleeves), but the onesie is a whole other level. It’s a Snuggi on steroids.
The other thing that’s happened, is that I found out I’m pregnant. Up the duff. With child. Baking a bun in my already rotund oven. At only 13-and-a-half weeks, there’s no doubt about it. I am looking decidedly round around the middle.
When I first found out, I sat frozen on the toilet, positive test in hand, and cried like a baby. A particularly surprised, hypochondriac baby with an anxious disposition, who had just made the startling realisation that life was about to change in immeasurable ways.
Then, still howling dramatically, I went to find Matty who, upon seeing my hysterical state, wondered who on earth had just carked it.
Now that the reality’s sunk in though, I can’t help thinking, perhaps naively, that it’s going to be fun. I’ve never been remotely clucky or broody or maternal, and I’ve always felt relieved about being able to hand other people’s caterwauling spawn back to them. But now that I don’t have a choice, all I can think about is how nice it will be to have an excuse to go on the merry-go-round and enjoy a bit of Disney-Pixar cinematic action.
And while the fact that I’ll be pushing another person out of my body (weird!) in six months time means that I’m probably not going achieve those washboard abs I’ve always dreamed of, I’m thanking my small, internal human for giving me an excuse to let my stomach hang out in all its roly-poly glory.