Then the two pink lines appeared. Pink, as in positiveβ¦as in pregnantβ¦as in pure, unadulterated panic. This wasnβt supposed to happen: Iβm 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 ovenβ¦
Donβt get me wrong, babies are greatβin 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 didnβt need anything moreβ¦did I? Well, whatever I needed, hereβs what I currently have: A nasty case of morning sickness, a future mother-in-law obsessed with βRossβs Baby,β and a custom-designed wedding dress Iβll soon be too fat to wear.
Now, as I burst the seams on my pencil skirts, Iβm 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 wardrobeβ and wondering how fast I can finish growing upβ¦
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