So, in case you didn’t know, I’m pregnant. (If you didn’t know this, I need you to send me ice cream as penance. Immediately.)
I was technically pregnant when I went to San Diego last August. I just didn’t know it yet.
One of my roommates, Suz, was undergoing fertility treatments. There may have been talks pre-BlogHer about progesterone and awkward moments at airport security when she’d have to explain what, exactly, she had in that cooler.
Another of my roommates, Alena, had an entire conversation with me in our hotel wherein at some point she randomly declared in a most confused fashion that she’d just spend the previous 15 minutes rubbing her own stomach.
I think Diana may have cried a time or two when talking to her own mother on the phone about her daughter Bella and how Bella was doing in Diana’s absence.
I got home on Monday and tested and discovered our Happy Accident.
The following month, Alena was pregnant.
And then one Saturday morning we all got an email from Suz with an ultrasound picture OF TRIPLETS.
Today? Diana announced that there’s a bun in her oven.
Yes, people. You did that math correctly.
ALL FOUR OF US ARE PREGNANT.
Between us, SIX BABIES will be born this year between April (that’s me, practically on deck ) and August.
Just call us the BlogHer fertility genies. We accept payment for belly rubs in the form of ice cream, pickles, donuts, and salt & vinegar potato chips.
(Our friend Amy from Baby Baby Lemon announced today that she’s pregnant as well. With twins. EIGHT BABIES. FIVE WOMEN.)