Two thirty-somethings renovate a 1920s Pittsburgh home, one do-it-yourself disaster at a time.

Without further ado, meet the DIY Mess’ new resident, slated for move-in at the end of February 2012!

This, of course, is why all the radio silence. For the longest time, I was detoxing from DIY fumes and dust, which ruled out pretty much every project on the agenda, and Dylan was too busy with his teaching load to work on the house. Then all the sudden, we were pregnant, and summer was in full swing. Dylan and our friend A. spent weeks on a new round of demo and construction, stirring up all sorts of smells that my hypersensitive nose didn’t agree with—just as the worst of the heat hit. So there’s been plenty to blog about this summer, but I’ve been too busy gagging and fanning myself to do it.

I had no idea how to explain my blogging hiatus. I wanted a family so bad I was scared to utter a word about it before I knew it was possible. But that’s all over now!

I will soon post photos of Dylan’s remarkable progress on the DIY Mess, which is looking less messy all the time. But for now, I need to shout from the rooftops about this kid growing inside me.

The first couple of ultrasound images came out all wavy because I couldn’t stop crying. We were both overwhelmed finally seeing for ourselves that there really is a lime-sized person in there, and it has arms and legs and a brain and a beating heart.

“I can’t believe how active it is,” Dylan said, watching our child wave and stretch and hiccup.

“Well, it is yours,” I said. “It’s probably bored in there.”

I mean honestly. Somebody give the kid a hammer.

The appointment was on the morning I hit week 12, which we’d decided ahead of time would be Tell The World Day. I was practically skipping down the hall, showing my coworkers the hazy, two-toned images of this little blob. It’s true, that’s about all you see in an ultrasound until it’s yours.

“Looks like an alien,” teased my carpoolmate. (Actually, she’d known for weeks—I’d figured I owed her and her upholstery fair warning that my stomach could blow at any minute.)

“Oh, I get it,” said the guy in the office next door when I pointed out the head, the arm, the teeny tiny little hand. “That’s why Dylan went on that long trip last month. Hehe.” (He was helping his parents with their renovation nightmares. Glutton for punishment, that boy.)

I’ve been scrawny all my life and was sure people would notice the second my navel started asserting itself. For weeks I’d been holding in my gut every time I got up from my desk at work, every time I waved hello to the neighbors. But when I tried telling people the news by showing them what I perceived to be my impressive profile, they were like, “What? Is something different?” Kinda flattering, I guess, but mostly disappointing. I’m gonna be a mom, and I want the world to know.

The neighborhood girls had my favorite reaction so far: tears and hugs and stories, stories, stories. “When I was pregnant, …” Someday I’ll tell stories like that, sitting on the steps of this home we made together, bouncing our little blob on my knee.

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