'Do you have a baby in your tummy?' asks seven-year-old Sonja, thrilled.
I laugh shrilly and make a joke about doughnuts.
Later, I tell one of the new school fathers about the remark and pause pleadingly for reassurance.
'So, are you pregnant?' he asks, peering.
I go home and survey myself in the guest room mirror. There is a definite billow where my belt buckle is protruding beneath my new top. Only I'm not wearing a belt; the bulge is a spare handful of me.
I suck in my breath and tell my daughter about Sonja and the new school gate father. She studies my midriff appraisingly. 'It's obvious you're not pregnant,' she concludes. 'You're too old.'