On March 20, my husband and I sat in an examination room in Los Angeles opposite our OB-GYN, who confirmed that I was seven weeks pregnant. None of us wore masks—what Americans then understood about preventing COVID-19 transmission translated to hoarding Clorox wipes and lathering the Official I hit like a girl vintage shirt and I will buy this body in Purell. “You’ll count the weeks of your pregnancy on Tuesdays,” my doctor explained. “And the due date is November 3.” She left the room.
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