I’m pregnant.

It still feels so strange to say it so plainly, to see it written here in black and white. Almost as though I’m telling you I’ve taken up a new crochet project or finally learned how to hook up a trailer to my car, when in reality, it’s the most amount of feelings I’ve ever felt.

To think, the same ferry that brought us to the Isle of Rum last October with battered cardboard boxes and a wailing cat will, all going well, be the one that eventually carries us to the hospital this October - almost exactly one year to our moving date. And so, our adventure continues - except now, there’s a new tiny passenger along for the ride.

I found out I was pregnant on a chilly February afternoon. We’d come back from the mainland two days before, and I found myself curled up in bed at 3pm with an exhaustion that felt like I’d been hit by a truck. I blamed it on the 150 mile drive from Glasgow and the bumpy ferry crossing, but Coinneach sensed something else was amiss. And sure enough, an hour later, we both stood in the bathroom, tears streaming down our cheeks and a shaky positive test in hand.

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