(She crossed her legs and wore a cashmere beret at 2 days old.
The nurses called her Nicole Kidman.)Motherhood, it turned out, came pretty naturally to me.
They’d come to every doctor appointment and had even gone so far as to help me choose my donor, though I was technically having a baby alone—I would be a single mom by choice. Starving already, I was off to enjoy a triumphant falafel. The first thing every guy wanted to know about was my relationship with the baby daddy. I found myself endlessly explaining my choices to guys I didn’t even want to go out with anymore. He called me sneaky for not disclosing my pregnancy right away.
She was prettier than I ever imagined and more elegant than a newborn has any right to be.
I wore a high-waisted sundress, and my big bump was outshone only by my new double-D chest. It felt great, but I was entering my third trimester and needed to take it easy. After that, I was huge, sweaty and slammed with work.
We bonded over our views on the public school system (yes, please! I like to think I took myself off the market, but truthfully, only a man with a pregnancy fetish would have wanted me—and, yikes.
I ended my yogi interview with as much Zen as possible, which was not much, then ran into the street, screaming. I didn’t add “pregnant” to my profile, because taken out of context it does raise a lot of questions (even I can admit that), and I didn’t want a guy creating the wrong narrative for me.
After one sperm donor, two intrauterine inseminations and thousands of dollars paid to the NYU Fertility Center, I was pregnant. Maybe I’d meet a single father or a modern romantic like me. One night I logged on to Tinder, not for the first time (British Marcus had come and gone—he was cute but little else).
You try not to bring up anything too controversial.