Not major baggage exactly, more of a lovely piece of light hand luggage - an attaché case perhaps, or a man bag - was how my future husband described his eight-year-old son, Max, when we first met. Fully aware that the mere mention of children often has the apprehensive date bolting for the nearest exit, the softly-softly approach, he reasoned, was the best policy. He needn't haven't worried: it didn't bother me that David had a child, if anything it made him more attractive, in a grown-up, sexy-dad-in-the-park type of way.

One year on and the little man bag is my future stepson -¬ and a page boy at our wedding in July. Along with his partner-in-crime, my eight-year-old nephew, and an assortment of bridesmaids and flower girls (this is what happens when you marry "later in life": between the two of you there are enough nieces and nephews to fill a kindergarten - marry young and you've got your glamorous friends trying to upstage you at every turn), Max will head up a troupe of eight miniature attendees, guaranteed to soften the hardest of hearts. And, like his dad, best man and various ushers, he will be wearing a kilt, which they will all be clambering into in what has come to be referred to as "Camp David" - a boysy, testosterone-charged, fry-up-reeking den of iniquity otherwise known as my sister's house. Meanwhile, we, the fragrant bridal party, will wake at my parents' to the sound of cooing white doves and the scent of roses, or so I'd like to imagine.

Asked cautiously if Max is looking forward to the day when his daddy gets married, he looks at us if we are mad, in a kind of "Duh, you told me it was like a big party. What's not to like?" way, and seems faintly bored when we run through the church and reception plans and explain what happens when, with whom and why. Then again, he's an eight-year-old boy, and the finer points of wedding planning are enough to send even professional bridezillas into a catatonic trance.

When it comes to being looked after during those special "just the two of us" moments on the big day (the photographs, the first dance), there are no end of adoring relatives and friends on hand to keep an eye out for him, and whisk away that illicit glass of champagne when he thinks no one is looking. In effect, he has 148 card-carrying babysitters. And a new stepmother.

"Will you be an evil stepmother?" asked Max the other day after one of our special pre-marriage bonding dinners. "No, Max, of course not," I replied, sweetly. "I'll be a lovely stepmother. Now eat your Brussel sprouts before I lock you in your room!"