Then the two pink lines appeared. Pink, as in positive…as
in pregnant…as in pure, unadulterated panic. This wasn’t
supposed to happen: I’m scheduled to marry the handsome,
successful, and very appropriate Ross Davis in six months.
Unfortunately, while Ross may not rock my world with
kitchen-table sex, his technique worked well enough to put
a bun in my thirtysomething oven…
Don’t get me wrong, babies are great—in theory. But I
enjoyed my life the way it was. Loved my job, my rooftop
apartment, my friends; was having fun planning my wedding
and gazing at my pretty three-carat diamond. I didn’t need
anything more…did I? Well, whatever I needed, here’s what
I currently have: A nasty case of morning sickness, a
future mother-in-law obsessed with “Ross’s Baby,” and a
custom-designed wedding dress I’ll soon be too fat to
wear.
Now, as I burst the seams on my pencil skirts, I’m trying
to take some small comfort in the fact that one is never
too bloated for a really cute purse. But impending
motherhood also has me reassessing more than my wardrobe—
and wondering how fast I can finish growing up…
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