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…