I wrote about pregnancy. I wrote about pregnancy in all its uncomfortable, vomit-spattered and ultimately, horrendous glory.
I had the baby. Pablo arrived May 26th 2018 after 24 hours of labour, culminating in my hysterical self being flopped onto the operating table and a very nice surgeon removing him swiftly from my body. Quite the picture I paint, isn't it.
So he arrived. I recovered. No sooner could I stand up then I was on the phone to the removal crew and packing up the house whilst reading press releases that I'd written aloud in a sing song voice to the baby that, frankly, couldn't give a shit that his mother had freelance clients to keep happy and an emigration to organise.
But somehow, with the unwavering help from my lifeline in human form, Sam, and a distinct lack of support from the dog, we pulled it off.
Early December, I jumped on a plane with Pabs while Sam drove our Labrador and rattletrap Volvo estate down through England, France and then to the south coast of Spain.
I work as a writer, Sam has embraced #dadlife with all the naive enthusiasm of a true first time parent, Pablo gets to grow up by the sea and the dog still eats out of the bin.
Indeed, this is us.