I’m caught in the odd state of a transitional identity. A mother in the making, but not yet a mother. I see women out in the world who are fit and fancy and wear makeup and have wardrobes that clearly required some planning and they probably washed their hair today, and with a soft sinking in my gut, I swallow the stark reality that I’m not one of those women right now. Perhaps again someday, but right now I feel so very different.

I horked down a toasted bagel with cream cheese with such expert expediency that I fought back tears of pleasure lest the patrons of Starbucks witness a plump pregnant lady in the corner sobbing into her schmear.

“Belly laughs” are such a delightful thing when you have a substantial belly.

I have zero ideas for Christmas gifts. I have so few ideas it almost feels like I have a negative number of ideas. Like I need to dig myself out of a hole that I fell into.

Talked myself out of wearing sweatpants in public and instead picked jeans. Thrilled to discover I have some dignity left, despite popular opinion.

I intend to journal in my pregnancy notebook every day about my experiences on this journey, but I get sick of writing “CAN’T WRITE: DYING” over and over again.

Also thrilled to discover my drawing skills haven’t taken a hiatus along with my brains, memory, emotional equilibrium, and motivation.