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).I was in the middle of interviewing a popular yoga teacher for a magazine story when I saw my phone light up. Still, what he described as his “sense of betrayal” struck me as extreme.
Also, should we end up liking each other, it might be a lot to explain to their friends, colleagues and families.
(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.
I felt disappointed—I thought we’d clicked—but mostly protective of myself and the little one inside.
By now, I knew I was having a girl, and no daughter of mine would ever see me chase a jerk.