Today Tim’s university told him he was first class, and let him wear a fancy robe at the same time. I thought that was pretty nice of them.
I got to pull the pregnancy card twice on crowded buses and once when wangling a seat near the front of the hall. The elderly graduation marshal did a double-take when I lumbered to the head of the queue and said ‘Oh goodness, look at that! You’d better take a seat up there’. At which I was torn between yessssssss and I’m sorry: what do you mean, ‘look at that’?!
Still, don’t knock a seat at the front of the hall. These are the perks of the job. The downside: feeling like you need to emphasise a) your face wrinkles, and b) your wedding ring to all and sundry. Because when you’re a student, in a gathering of students, and you’re towing a heavily pregnant girl behind you, it does kind of look like you landed an eighteen-year-old with child. When I mentioned this to Timothy he kindly informed me that there was no way I looked eighteen, and he was pretty sure he didn’t look twenty-one.
I decided to be reassured instead of insulted.
Lovely afternoon: from the getting to leave work at 12pm, to the pizza and trifle we got for lunch (we didn’t have time to go out for dinner afterwards, and we’re the classy sort), to the air of general finery and cheer. This is quite a milestone for us – Tim’s degree has occupied precisely 100% of our married life thus far, as well as many sleepless nights and early mornings for him – so it felt like something to celebrate. He’s done fabulously. Onwards and outwards.
(An aside: I could also tell you how my hugeness today led to me actually bursting out of clothes – for real, and it was my favourite skirt and everything – but today wasn’t about me, so I won’t. But it happened, friends. It happened.)