Just finished reading a memoir by the author of the Storked! blog on Glamour.com. Not that I had heard of the blog before picking up the book, so for anyone else is isn't familiar with it, Christine Coppa was a 26-year-old Manhattanite with a dream job working on a start-up publication, and a sort of Sex and the City existence with her network of glamourous girlfriends, all-night party sessions, cocktail brunches, and model-like boyfriend. Until they had unprotected sex, she got pregnant, and he skipped town.
Christine writes about her pregnancy, how she pulled her life back together, the birth of her son, her desire to get her son's father into his life (he declines), and the first few life-changing months of motherhood.
One of her friends has a quote on the back cover, reading, "Christine Coppa is a potty-mouthed, modern-day Holly Golightly." Maybe she gets that from their personal relationship, but I don't see that in the book. She's not terribly potty-mouthed, the book was engaging and well-written, and I don't see her as fey or tragic. (Although she's gone through some rough experiences, including major back surgery and once dated someone who became paralyzed in a motocross accident.)
If I weren't having a baby of my own in nine weeks or so, I'd probably be jealous that she's able to support herself on her writing, that she works in New York City, that she has designer clothes and a large group of fashionable girlfriends. But then I see Matt looking into the waiting crib, hear him talk to my belly, or feel his hands seeking out the little movements going on inside of me, and I think I wouldn't trade this life for all the Gucci diaper bags in the world.