Surprise: I am having a SON!!!!

Usually my weekly journals have a paywall. This week is totally free. **NOTE: This journal touches fertility, so please do not read if that’s a sensitive topic for you.

Good afternoon. It’s a beautiful day here in South Jersey. I’m propped up in bed with my MacBook and big noise-canceling Bose headphones cranking binaural beats, drinking a cocktail of Emergen-C and Topo Chico because that’s something I do these days as an immunocompromised aka PREGNANT person.

In September I will have a son. I feel insane typing this. It’s much easier to announce a pregnancy on Instagram where I can drop an ultrasound and some memes set to “Vroom Vroom” by Charli XCX and be done with the thing. That is not enough for you people. You people want a story. Well, I’ve got one, unremarkable as any other tale that can be distilled into “this is how babies are made.” But it is mine and I like it.

The calendar had just flipped to 2026. Bianca was about to hit nine months. I’d just gotten my first postpartum period in December, so I wasn’t tracking my cycle or anything like that. I was feeling good, you know, like a person again, motherhood and the rest of my life in rhythm. My body was beginning to respond.

One night Andrew and I had a classic accident and I was like, “nooooo worries! I’m about to get my period anyway!” I was crampy and sweating in 30-degree weather. It felt like PMS.

Laying in bed postcoital, I Googled “if I got my period XX date, when would I be ovulating?” and sure enough, I was not about to get my period; I was at peak ovulation. How quickly you forget what different phases of the menstrual cycle feel like when you’re out of the game for like, two fucking years.

I immediately bought Plan B. The drunken one night standness of it all! Sat at the kitchen table staring at the box, debating whether to take it. Remembering how it wrecked my hormones in the past, all the mood swings and panic attacks. I thought, no way do I get pregnant on the first shot TWICE.

The idea of taking Plan B felt almost arrogant. Like who am I, approaching 35, to believe myself so fertile? But I was scared for real. Because I was not arrogant enough to believe I could handle two children under two years old.

Which is exactly why I didn’t take it. 😤

Andrew was already relaxed about the idea of having a second child in quick succession. We figured we’d try again when Bianca was 1.5 or so. The more I thought about it though, Plan B in hand, the more I loved the idea of siblings nearly the same age. We were like, what if we just lock in for a few really hard years instead of getting pulled out of it just to be thrust back into newborn chaos down the line?

A decision was made. I stashed my emergency contraceptive in a junk drawer and said GO WITH GOD.

Ohhh the weeks to follow. They were so obvious! So perfectly reminiscent of my first pregnancy, it was comical. I was like I DON’T FEEL SO GOOD and Andrew was like YEAH YOU’RE PREGNANT. Tested positive twice in a row. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I’m really doing this, aren’t I? I thought.

A few days after finding out, we went to a wedding at a brewery where I drank beers and smoked cigs and blabbed to my friends that I’M PREGNANT AGAIN… to which they looked down at the beer and the cig and looked back up at me with raised eyebrows and we had a good laugh. You’re not so precious about things on your second rodeo. Cluster of cells can have a little lager as a treat. Figured it’d be my last hoorah before it’s off to war again.

Call the wedding a super spreader or blame the seasons, everyone I knew got sick afterward, myself included. So I was toughing it out through first trimester brutality and what felt like some new COVID variant that spawned from the filthiest conceivable festival porta potty. Maybe you got a heightened ‘woe is me’ vibe from the newsletter. Now you know why.

When I was pregnant in 2024-2025, I wrote about the first trimester as a psychedelic experience. There has been no such contact with the ethereal this time around. No sobbing over the beauty of an egg yolk in the sun. Rather, this pregnancy has been purely physical: round-the-clock nausea and fatigue; repulsed by 90% of the food you put in front of me that isn’t whipped cream or a noodle or something pickled; waking up freezing in a pool of sweat every night and having to change pajamas.

If I was in the clouds before, I am here on earth with this peach-sized child. I am in my body. I am crying on the subway. I am feeding my baby tiny bites of peanut butter toast. I am huffing and puffing through two-mile runs at a snail’s pace. I am getting mad at myself for how hard I prayed for a second girl, for visualizing sisters who spend their entire lives as best friends. I am forgiving myself. I am holding my baby and smiling so hard thinking MY GIRL! My only girl my little flower I’ll love you til I DIE. I am getting deliriously excited for boy stuff. I am choosing his name; I am hating it the next morning. I am crazy but I am free!!!!

Check out my son. He’s like if a kidney bean had insane aura and swag……..

We are entering a beauty renaissance. Can’t you feel it? We’ve always known beauty as a human need, but it’s been articulated lately in language that I find really interesting and optimistic.

Like right now, it’s ok to want to be physically beautiful. We’re allowed to admit that now. What a relief! That means it’s a good time to think about ways to engage with physical beauty that aren’t driven by markets and algorithms. Ways that align with your soul and make you feel more alive and energized.

Some ideas:

• Say you did DNA testing. Look into the beauty rituals of your ancestors as a way to connect with your lineage.

• Try going full days without looking in the mirror. One way to engage with physical beauty is to trust in it, to channel it from within and trust that it’s showing up on the outside.

• Consider all the incredible colors and textures of the natural world. Do your makeup like a fucking opal!

• Seek inspiration locally. Dine at a cool restaurant alone and really take note of the beauty around you, the people in the room. Write down what you see and try it yourself.

If you try or have tried any of those, let me know in the comments or shoot me an email dia@brokebutmoisturized.com – I’d love to hear from you.

Rainy, miserable day in greater Philadelphia. I’ve been washing my hair at an above average frequency, so at least I have that working for me—the antidepressant that is clean hair. I pulled it back into a sloppy half-up with a claw clip and got dressed in an oversized black satin button-down, medium wash Levi’s Wedgie Straight jeans, Vagabond Giselle boots, and my godforsaken QUINCE raincoat.

My husband has this ongoing bit: I say I need something, and he very eagerly and sincerely suggests Quince. I’ll be like, “I need a new black cardigan” and he’ll go, “I know JUST the place!” and cracks himself up. It’s truly insufferable. What is it about Quince that feels so cursed, though? Admittedly, we have a couple blankets from there that I adore but the clothing vibe is uncanny.

Well, either way, I got stuck commuting in a gnarly downpour one day without an umbrella or a raincoat, Googled WOMEN’S RAINCOAT on the train, and bought the Quince SEO result with APPLE PAY in TEN FUCKING SECONDS. So that’s what I wear. It’s fine. It was a dirty purchase but it’s fine.

Work was quiet today. Boss at a funeral. Teammate on vacation. Kind of the best case scenario for me to sneak out for coffee with Courtney from S.P.A. while she’s in Philly!

I popped over to Bluestone Lane at 17th and Arch to grab us a table. It was my first time at that location; I was surprised it was so dead, being right by Comcast and every law and accounting firm in the city. I was also surprised it was so… gross. Three college-looking kids hung behind the counter and I awkwardly paced around looking for a spot that wasn’t covered in food and splashes of mocha. Eventually I had to be That Guy and ask someone to wipe down a table (something I never do/would happily do myself, so you know it was bad). The 6’4 baby-faced Eastern European kid took care of business.

Then Courtney arrived and we had a fabulous time. I have a visceral need to see her pop off on Substack and beyond, especially now that I’ve felt her energy in person. It’s contagious! Like, every story she told me about her career or how she met her husband had me in stitches. She’s a true blue bohemian with big ideas and the right blend of business and whimsy to pull it off. The main goal right now is to get her to Burning Man on someone else’s dime. If anyone of influence is reading this, you can trust my taste and my instincts. This is the person you want on the ground.

Courtney’s husband Logan came by to hang for a bit and it was like, what a lovely couple. Just great people. She was carrying a big bag with a swimsuit in it, determined to finesse a day at the Four Seasons pool. When I got home, I received a text from Courtney: a photo by the pool. So good. S.P.A. forever.