A long time ago, I read somewhere that becoming a mother is like taking your heart out of your body, giving it arms and legs, and letting it go. On the morning of Sept. 7, I finally understood what that means. After a surprisingly smooth nine hours of labor, I gave birth to my son, Kelsey Scott Conover Jr., whom my husband and I affectionately call “Scotty.” At the risk of sounding every bit the cliché, the experience was, unequivocally, the best thing that ever happened to me. Yet, before all that unbridled joy, there was trepidation and…fear. Yes, that’s right, fear. (I’ve been candid with …

They never said pregnancy was all roses and belly rubs. And I’m here to tell you that they were right. Fibroid pain aside, I’ve actually had it fairly easy during this pregnancy: I never vomited once; never had any back pain; my stomach didn’t really “pop” until the tail end of the second trimester, and the staples of my wardrobe still consist of non-maternity apparel. But the tide has since turned. It’s hard for me to believe that a few short months ago, I actually uttered the words, “But I still don’t feel pregnant!” Famous last words. To all those women who -- though very thankful to be …

It all started with a can of DEET-free mosquito repellent, a tube of lip gloss, and a professional-grade digital camera… A few weeks ago, Scotty and I took our first official mommy and son portrait. (Okay, technically, Scotty was -- and still is -- in utero; but as you well know by now, I like to get a jump on things.) On a sunny yet tolerably warm Monday afternoon, professional photographer Ashley Reed came to casa Conover to chronicle my journey thus far on the road to motherhood, and I must admit that I was straddling the fence: While pregnancy is deemed a glorious, wondrous event -- one …

Christina Crawford: My babies! Someone stole both my babies! Joan Crawford: That’s good, darling. They were thoughtless, selfish, spoiled children. Now they won’t wake you up when you need your rest.-- Mommie Dearest, Paramount Pictures, 1981 I had a nightmare last night. A pretty bad one. Okay, so it didn’t involve Joan Crawford, wire hangers, or the neurotic ritual of rising at 4 a.m. to scrub my face with scalding hot water -- and then dunking it into a vat of ice to close my pores, thank God, but the dream was still troubling nonetheless. It was troubling because I’d sooner jump off a …

Not to beat a dead horse here, but it bears repeating: I don’t leave the house. (Doctor’s appointments and a once-a-month, if that, jaunt to Walmart with hubby notwithstanding.) So when I say I depend on the following items, I mean I depend on them much like an Eskimo needs his snowshoes. Pregnancy is wonderful. It is also frightening, hunger-inducing, and quite uncomfortable. And since I wouldn’t go camping without a tent and a flashlight, there is no way I could grow an entire human being without a little help from my “friends.” Here are the items I’ve come to rely on to get me through: Bio…

I’m going to go out on a limb here and really expose myself. I mean really. Here’s my confession: I’ve been keeping a keen eye on what goes into my mouth because I don’t want to gain unnecessary weight during this pregnancy. There. I said it. No, I am not starving myself. Yes, I’ve indulged in the occasional Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. And yes, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that my primary objective with regard to my dietary choices is to nourish my baby. But I also know full well that the admission above puts me in a prime position to be criticized. And here’s why: Despite all the …

I didn’t know it would be like this. I think an intervention might be in order. I’ve heard of this so-called “nesting instinct” among pregnant women, a peculiar phenomenon which infuses moms-to-be with almost superhuman strength and unprecedented levels of energy. I liken it to those scenarios involving men who, after finding that someone is pinned under a car, lifts said car with their bare hands without thinking twice. Nesting is like that; only it involves manic Type-A organizational skills. (By the way, I think nesting, is way, way worse when you’re house-bound because you can’t actually …

It was the very first thing my sister-in-law asked upon learning that I was expecting. She didn’t ask when I was due. She didn’t ask whether I wanted a girl or a boy. She didn’t ask if I had come up with a theme for the nursery. “So are you going to breastfeed?” She posed the question with such purpose that it was as if she had shot it out of a cannon. (Nothing like getting straight to the point, eh?) She is family, yes, but I’d be lying if I wasn’t a bit taken aback. It wasn’t that I didn’t have an answer to her question (I indeed plan to breastfeed); and it wasn’t that I felt coy about …

I am somewhat of a loner. Don’t get me wrong, I like people (most of the time, anyway). It’s just that I am extremely accustomed to doing things on my own. This is a trait possessed by many only children, which I am, so perhaps having to be the personification of ingenuity when I was, say, seven, has something to do with it. When I was lonely, I’d think nothing of turning my mother’s treadmill into a runway for my dolls’ fashion show; I’d grab my dad’s flashlight from the garage and — voilà — I had a spotlight. Sure, my production didn’t have an audience. But I was so happy that I had made a …

I was lying on the exam table, stomach coated in warm, gooey gel, praying to the bladder gods for the will to contain the Aquafina inside of me. Too much sudden pressure at the hands of the technician dragging that receiver across my abdomen, and I would have unloaded enough water to fill one of those blue plastic kiddie pools. With my eyes glued shut and lips pursed, I was hoping against hope that I could make it through this ultrasound. “It’s a boy!” shouted my husband Scott out of nowhere. What!? I lifted my head, peered through my left eye, and I could see that Scott was, literally, on …