•  What sex your babies are. (Michael and I don’t even know. We’ve requested to be surprised.)

•  What you’re naming them (and they will have plenty of suggestions, even though you didn’t ask. We have our own ideas for names, even better ones than Luke and Leia, such as Frank and Arthur and Helen and Elizabeth. But of course everyone will hate these, so we’re keeping them secret).

•  Touching your stomach, either for luck or just because you’re the new “People’s Princess” . . . which I guess will make the twins the “People’s Babies,” which is good. But seriously. Boundaries. Boundaries!

•  Offering advice, from parenting tips to how much you ought to be resting, what you ought to be eating or not eating, drinking, doing, wearing, etc.

But it’s good to be liked, I guess.

Michael grinned and sat down beside me on the bed, slightly jostling Fat Louie.

“I’m not criticizing,” he said. “I’m taking care of you. That’s my new job, besides following two steps behind you at all times, protecting you with my life, and calling you ‘ma’am.’ ”

“You don’t actually have to call me ‘ma’am’ until after the coronation,” I said, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze. “How are they doing down there?”

He nodded toward the open balcony doors, through which I could hear our parents and siblings, all the groomsmen, bridesmaids, visiting dignitaries, and other wedding guests—but most especially Grandmère—raucously laughing and enjoying their champagne and mini grilled cheese sandwiches (I did win on those. But there’s no taco or nacho bar. We are, however, having lobster mac and cheese later this evening) in the royal gardens below.

“You can’t tell by that racket?” he said. “They’re having a terrible time. Just awful. The ceremony was a disaster.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “I’ve been watching it.” I held up the remote. “It’s recorded. They showed it on CNN. Do you want to see?”

He groaned. “No. Why would I want to see my enormous head on CNN?”

“Your head isn’t enormous. Lana’s husband’s head is enormous.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “I know! Have you seen that guy? What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, but if our babies have heads that big, I’m getting a C-section for sure. I totally understand now what Lana was talking about when she was telling me why she got one.”

“That is cold,” Michael said. “What else do girls talk about, besides their husbands’ enormous heads? Wow, I just heard that come out of my mouth, and it sounded way dirtier than I meant it to.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know I’m starting to feel infantilized. When am I going to be allowed to bust out of here and rejoin the party?”

“What did the doctor say?”

“The doctor said two hours. Tina said the doctor was being reactionary.”

“Oh, and Tina has her medical degree, so we should definitely listen to her.”

“Well, I think Tina is feeling a bit better than she has in a while.”

“Yes, I think you could say that,” Michael agreed with a grin, but he was too much of a gentleman to add, I told you so.

Tina was not the only one who’d been surprised to discover Boris P. was the “top-notch live entertainment” Grandmère had lined up for the reception instead of the DJ Michael and I had requested.

I was a little miffed at first. Was I to get nothing I wanted at my wedding?

Well, except a groom who’s the man of my dreams, of course. And my parents, happily together for the first time in my memory. And a new little sister, and all of my best friends showing up, as well as what’s turned out to be a truly gorgeous gown, Sebastiano having de-emphasized my belly by raising the waistline a little, and adding diamond Ms—for Michael and Mia—instead of bows as the “pickups” Lilly had suggested. They not only “pick up” the full tulle skirt, they pick up the light and glitter outrageously!

But even Boris being here has turned out all right, because he’s agreed to sing every single song on Michael’s playlist, and also—quite dramatically, at last night’s rehearsal dinner in the grand reception hall, no less—showed Tina that the photos of him and that blogger were, indeed, Photoshopped, as he had insisted all along.

“Look, they’re of you and me,” he insisted (which, if she’d ever bothered to look at them, like Lilly and I had encouraged her to do, she’d have known). “Remember the ones we took that weekend in Asheville? She cut and pasted copies of her own head over yours. I don’t know how she got hold of them. Hacked my phone, I guess. You always told me I needed a better password than the one I use . . . Tina.” He blushed. “I guess it wasn’t that hard for her to figure out.”

This, of course, mortified Tina—she didn’t want any of us knowing she and Boris had nude photos of each other.

But I thought it was sweet . . . and it also allowed me to be able to sagely point out, “Let he—or she—who does not have a set of nude photos cast the first stone.”

(This did not amuse Grandmère, however, especially since I said it in front of the pope. But I think it must have amused him, since it’s currently one of the top quotes on social media, I noticed a while ago.)