Here’s the scoop. Six months ago, I was busy planning my wedding (a casual, elegant affair I had no financial business throwing, but had scheduled for September all the same), when… well… let’s just say my mood dipped, drastically. My boobs hurt, I couldn’t sleep through the night and if I didn’t kill myself any second, I was certainly going to brutally murder The (poor, unfortunate) Limey I’d agreed to marry a few months before. Though I will admit that a certain amount of tempestuousness is part of my Scorpio nature (Sun, Moon and three other planets all in the sign of the stinger, tyvm), this was not a normal state of affairs for me… at least not exactly. You see, six weeks earlier I had begun bioidentical hormone therapy to treat my low estrogen and testosterone (not typical conditions at my age, but just two of my four endocrine issues all the same)… and it was working. The black cloud of spiked cortisol had dissipated, my energy was improving and—best of all—my libido was returning after a six-month hibernation!! In fact, for the first time since my rollercoaster of hormone disorders began (robbing me of vitality and signaling a cruel “welcome to your 30s, kid!”), I felt just as I always had prior to these problems… in other words, like nothing could stop me.

Until, one morning in early April, I didn’t. And understandably (after three years of yo-yoing treatments, none of which seemed to do the trick for more than a few weeks), I was terrified. Especially when the feeling got worse… and worse… and worse. Not only was I nauseated and teary 24/7, but I couldn’t bring myself to write (which I have to do to make a living) and I didn’t want to get out of bed! Worried that recovery was all a hoax and that the once vibrant, sassy, sexy Stephanie would heretofore be replaced with an angry, a-sexual, acid-tongued shrew I couldn’t stand to face in the mirror, I was ready to crawl in a hole and die… When, one Friday evening (following a few glasses of medicinal Veuve Clicquot at the Avalon), I found out I had another thing coming.

You guessed it, (though let’s be honest, it shouldn’t be too hard since this blog is on The Cradle), turned out, I was pregnant.

Two positive pee sticks, a blood test, six ultrasounds and some 24 weeks later, I am officially nearing the end of the second trimester of my very first (albeit totally unplanned) pregnancy… And already, so much about my life has changed. I survived the stress of planning a wedding, am now happily (though very newly) married and am sporting a basketball sized belly inside which a little boy by the name of Dashiell Alexander currently resides, listening to my every word and kicking me on occasion (though only when I deserve it). I have also been introduced (and indoctrinated into) a world of acronyms, abbreviations and information I didn’t previously know existed (BFP, SAHM, MIL?!), and I’ve been touched as my friends with children have come out of the woodwork, willing to listen and eager to share the experiences of being a parent. I’ve even begun to feel closer to my own mom (despite the fact that she drives me crazy sometimes!), simply because I can now truly understand the bond that she feels to me as her (only) child. But there is still one catch in this blissfully happy, joyous, insta-family situation. A catch I haven’t shared with my DH or the army of supporters who have offered their help, advice and understanding… mostly because I feel too selfish admitting that I’m what’s been on my mind these days.

You see, while I’m extremely excited for Dashiell’s arrival and thrilled about becoming a mom… at the same time, I’m nervous—scared really—about what exactly, is going to become of me. All these new titles (wife, mother-to-be, mother), the stuff we spend our young lives aspiring to… but now what? Who am I really? For the first time in my life, I feel less certain about my future than I ever have before. Will my career disappear just as it was starting to take off? Will my goals all change in the face of this little person who has already become the center of my universe? Who will I become?

(And most importantly, will that person have stretch marks?)

Luckily, I’ve got three months before little Dash arrives to figure it all out. And whilst chronicling my misadventures, figuring it all out is exactly what I will try to do here, in this blog. So wish me luck and please, join me. God knows, I need all the help I can get!