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I was sleep­-deprived but propped up by a continual swell of happy hormones. We took long, contemplative walks and got lattes every morning.

And when it came to help, I counted myself extremely lucky: my family pitched in and worked overtime, easing the transition in ways that a hundred husbands couldn’t, from daily home-cooked meals to on-demand babysitting. I even learned to use her as a kettlebell when working out at home (she giggled the whole time.)Of course, there was plenty of hard stuff, too.

(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.

Then, on October 3, one month before her due date, I met my greatest love of all time, Hazel Delilah Shelasky.

She was prettier than I ever imagined and more elegant than a newborn has any right to be.

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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 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. Without much time to explain, I asked the yogi to hold my hand. My mother reminded me, as she always does, that there’s a halo above me. When I explained that I used a sperm donor, they were comforted but confused. And to be fair, I’d waited until about 20 minutes in, because our banter seemed so fluid and fun.So it was serendipitous that I met Aaron, a humanities professor, at a dinner party during my second trimester.Aaron seemed to delight in every detail of my story.

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