I am pregnant.
As I write this, only about six people in the world know. But by the time this is published I will be out of my first trimester and feeling more at liberty to spread the news. Plus my uterus will have expanded out of my pelvic bones making it more and more obvious that the reason I’m not drinking Scotch is not because “I just don’t feel like a drink,” but because even though I definitely feel like a drink, it isn’t the most responsible option for the little human growing in my tummy.
I was always on the fence about becoming a mom. I worry about overpopulation and global warming and the general decline of civilization. But as I approached “advanced maternal age” I decided now was the time to give it a go. After almost a year of coming to terms with the reality that I had probably waited too long to try to conceive, a sonographer searching for uterine polyps and cysts blurted out, “I found a gestational sac!” And then I was pregnant.