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That’s right, I am now *gasp* a “Mrs”. I have a new husband, name and marital status.

This time one week ago I was slugging down wine and preparing for the first dance. I was still attempting to teeter around on too-high shoes (my new husband is six foot five, so the high shoes were a necessity) and look elegant in my beautiful dress. But the alcohol was also starting to take it’s toll, so the veil had been ditched and the laughing was getting a little raucous.

It was the best day of my life.

Don’t get me wrong, the day Frog was born was pretty special too. But I was also in quite a bit of pain and hadn’t slept in three days. So as far as pain-free, non-sleep deprived days go, last Saturday wins hands down.

I want to tell you all about it, really I do. But I want to do it with pictures. So you’ll have to hang on a couple of days until I can do the wedding blog post justice, when the photographs are ready.

And then I promise I’ll shut up about the damn wedding and get back to the baby business.

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*Gasp*

As in, really out. Not just to put the rubbish in the dustbin at the end of the garden. I’ll be in a proper pub with proper adults and proper alcohol and everything. And I can’t wait.

The thing is, this time a year ago I was one of those women. The naive pregnant ones who think everything will return to just the way it was before they were “with child”. “Yeah yeah, I’ll breastfeed – but my baby will take a bottle too,” was one of my favourite mantras. And “As soon as this baby’s out I’ll find time to go out dancing every now and then.”

As if.

Dancing was the last thing on my mind after pushing what felt like a melon through a hole the size of a needle. Granted, it may not be the size of a needle anymore, but that’s what it felt like at the time. And then Frog balked at the sight of any kind of latex, preferring her milk direct from the source.

So dancing and pubs have pretty much taken a back seat over the past year.

Meaning I’ve been mainly wearing these:

In typical over-enthusiastic, I-hardly-ever-go-out-anymore fashion, I will be donning a pair of heels for tonight’s adventures. This is partly because in my head, they give the illusion of turning a 5ft 4″ woman with wobbly thighs into a 5ft 8″ long-legged beauty, and partly because I feel they’ve become rather lonely gathering dust at the back of my wardrobe.

Ah, hello friends:

I have absolutely no doubt I’ll fall over at some point during the evening. It has happened many times before. I also have absolutely no doubt I’ll end up singing at some point, a habit I have been known to do when consuming alcohol in the past.

If the singing starts, it’ll be probably be this little number. It’s a karaoke favourite, which I’ve belted out while standing on a chair in the middle of a pub on, you guessed it, more than one occasion:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcOxhH8N3Bo]

So, Emma, Jane and Alice – this is what you’ve let yourself in for this evening. Please don’t stand me up, I’m relying on backing singers for my Bonnie rendition and someone to help me walk in these bloody ridiculous shoes.

This post was born from a tag at Mummy Mummy Mum. Well, two actually, asking me to reveal a) my choice in karaoke song and b) my shoes. So here they are. Now I tag Alice at My Life, My Son, My Way, because I reckon she has good taste in karaoke – and some cracking pairs of shoes.

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