Dear Diary,
I am worn out.
I know Mary is the pregnant one, but I’ve been doing all the running around for her. She’s sat at home with the Son of God inside her, taking it handy. If I have to make her one more weak and milky cup of tea, I’m going to scream. The cows can’t keep up with her demands, she’s going to run us out of business.
Yes, I’m aware that all sounds very selfish but in fairness, the baby isn’t mine. Obviously, I’ll be getting a paternity test once the little chap is born, but let’s be honest, if you don’t put a coin in the vending machine, you’re not going to get a chocolate bar.
I’m still a bit skeptical about everything. Mary always said she wanted us to wait until the time is right and that’s fine, I fully respect that. But I’m a realistic guy. When your girlfriend comes home and tells you she’s gotten pregnant essentially by magic, you need to ask the big questions: What was the magician’s name? Where does he live? Where did you meet him? Does he actually answer prayers?
Unfortunately, Mary’s answers were sketchy, so I read her diary. I had to. Now she’s no Anne Frank, but it seems that she’s telling the truth about Magic Man. You just couldn’t make it up!
So, once we established all that, it was just a case of getting a birthing plan together and moving on with our lives. She’s going to do a completely natural water birth at home, in the paddling pool out the back. As long as that all goes to plan, I’ll be happy.
In other news, I got a new robe in the market and it’s an eggshell colour rather than the usual plain white. Loads of people have been commenting on how well I look and I’ve even been given the nickname ‘Joseph Of Snazareth’ because apparently I look very snazzy. Can’t complain!
Talk soon,
Joe.
