mammal (noun): warm-blooded higher vertebrates that give birth to live young, nourish their young with milk secreted by mammary glands, and have the skin usually more or less covered with hair

I’m a mammal. You’re a mammal.

Beyond our luscious hair, our ability to give birth to live young and nourish them with milk are the characteristics of our biology that make us different from… fish, or spiders, or anemones.

I honestly forgot that. Which is silly, considering I’m a biologist and biologists love describing and categorizing things.

I’m a mammal who’s pretty aware of my own brain, my own body, and the general blueprint of being a human.

I thought.

When I first got pregnant, I was sidelined by the realities.

Brain? Gone.

Body? Hijacked.

Appetite? Poof.

Hair? STUNNING.

huh.

This time around, I’m documenting the journey. From bump to baby and in between, my goal with this series is to share the realities of what a human pregnancy looks like.

I know too much about the science, have witnessed birth in a ton of species other than ours, and am gearing up to do it all over again.

I love and hate living inside a case study, so I figured I should share it.

Come on, strap in, and join me on what promises to be an adventure.

👋🏻 Meet your Monkey Girl

Hi, I’m Allison aka Monkey Girl—a published author, PhD scientist, and trusted book editor.

I’m reclaiming my story, one chapter, one essay, one monkey at a time. Read my romcom Love Letter to Wanderlust, and keep your eyes peeled for my 👣 Path to Published series.

My latest and loudest series to date is BIG. DUMB. MAMMAL. where I’m sharing all the details of pregnancy, from the perspective of a biologist living this process in real time.

When I’m not typing away at my computer, I’m usually on a plane with my husband and toddler, or defending my three very patient cats from said toddler.

Thanks for being here, truly. If you have thoughts, questions, anything, send me a message. I read every word and I’d love to hear from you.

Photography by the brilliant c.m.elle studios.

Today’s post is a real one. Pretty unfiltered and honest. If any of the following topics are tricky or triggering for you, please exercise self care and consider skipping this post.

Content warning: fertility, pregnancy, trying to conceive

There’s this thing about Schrödinger’s uterus that drives me absolutely batty.

Oh, right. I might be the only one that calls it that. Let me back up.

I’m a fan of Schrödinger’s cat.

The idea that something is alive and not alive at the same time until you confirm either state is annoying and mind-bending and honestly I dislike it immensely.

I’m someone who believes in facts, in truth.

It should be impossible for something to be alive and not alive at the same time, true and not true.

Because the philosophy of Schrödinger’s cat annoys me, but the concept itself is kinda funny and brilliant and dark all at once… I love it.

Even more so, I love calling random things Schrödinger’s because it sounds smart and ridiculous and makes people go huh? and tilt their heads before they piece together what I’m talking about.

It’s like my own little dad joke that never fails to make me chuckle.

Schrödinger annoys me a bit a lot because though life has consistently reminded me that there are multiple truths, more than one correct way of interpreting an event, a memory… I’m uncomfortable with the idea that there can be ambiguity in truth.

Maybe I’m just impatient.

I’m definitely impatient.

Regardless, I like applying the concept of Schrödinger’s cat to random other situations.

Like my uterus.

tire screech as we change subjects

The approximately two-week wait between ovulation and the start of my next period is the most frustrating two-week window I reliably experience.

I like to decide things fast:

In or out.

Yes or no.

Want to get married? Yes. I married him two weeks after we got engaged.

Should we move? Yes. We toured and put an offer on our new house the next day.

Babies are a different story. From the moment the reality of being a parent popped into my head, the whole process has humbled me.

If you’ve been around, it’s not a secret I’m a mom. My tiny human is nearing two years old, and he’s profoundly changed my life in so many ways.

Motherhood and parenthood are not what I’m talking about today.

I’m talking about that two week window where you can be pregnant and not pregnant at the same time.

The time period between ovulation (when the ovary releases an egg) and the absolute soonest a pregnancy test can turn positive following successful conception (egg joins with sperm) and implantation (fertilized egg embeds in the uterine wall) is approximately two weeks, give or take a few days.

Really.

Two weeks.

Pregnancy tests rely on a hormone called hCG, which is only released by the uterus when a fertilized egg has successfully implanted. And your hCG levels are only high enough to have entered your bloodstream and be metabolized into your urine and THEN DETECTED ON A URINE-BASED PREGNANCY TEST about 2 to 4 days after implantation*.

*This varies based on how much hCG your uterus produces and how sensitive the pregnancy test is.

Prior to implantation, there’s NO WAY TO KNOW IF YOU ARE PREGNANT.

I’ve named this time period…

Schrödinger’s uterus.

I’ve been through this process, of trying to conceive, a few times.

I haven’t talked about much of it publicly, because the process of deciding to become a parent, trying to conceive, not conceiving, conceiving too soon, terminating a pregnancy, deciding now is the time, announcing a pregnancy… it’s all so incredibly intimate and vulnerable. And sometimes, the responses people give to the things you’re living through are not helpful.

Sometimes, outside opinions are too loud, too much, and not supportive.

Sometimes, reality is too hard to talk about.

Sometimes, I hold my cards close to my chest because I don’t yet know how I feel about something.

Over the past few years, I’ve really wished someone had just sat me down and told me every detail. Like, every single detail. Day by day, of their experience of trying to get pregnant, the hard parts of pregnancy, the mental gymnastics we go through during the process of becoming a mother (matrescence).

That shouldn’t surprise you: I’m a biologist. I study behavior. Of course I want to know all the details.

There’s so much I was unprepared for, and so much I wish someone had told me “this is normal” or “normal looks different for every person who does this.”

Far more books exist on the topic of pregnancy and parenthood than one person could ever read, but there’s an inherent problem with most of them. In trying to be as universal as possible, so many “guides to pregnancy” lose the power of specificity.

The realness of what it’s like to live through this process.

For me, my body is my own personal case study.

There’s a beauty in writing things with nuance. I need to say this plainly though, otherwise I know I’ll hide behind pretty prose to distract you from something that I used to consider pretty shameful.

It’s important we start here. While this series will focus on my current pregnancy, the context of how I got here and what’s happen during previous pregnancies is important and will pop up.

I’ve been pregnant three times:

1. early 2023: I terminated this pregnancy.

2. late 2023: my son was born in 2024.

3. now… oh don’t act surprised, I’m not that subtle ;)

I’ve been through Schrödinger’s uterus three times.

First Schrödinger’s uterus

“We’re not trying but we’re not preventing.”

Bull-f-ing-shit, past Allison.

I’m far too aware of my own body to pretend I didn’t know exactly what was going on.

No birth control and a healthy sex life?

1 + 1 is still 2, folks.

In early 2023, a few weeks after my first period without my trusty IUD in, I knew I was pregnant long before a test could possibly confirm it. And I was right.

But that two-week wait was excruciating. Because I knew. And no test would turn positive.

There’s a special kind of isolation in knowing something but not having any proof.

I didn’t see that pregnancy through to term, for a few reasons I’ll share someday. Maybe.

Second Schrödinger’s uterus

When I was next ready to get pregnant, late 2023, the two week wait was annoying, but for a fully different reason.

What if the first time I conceived was my one shot? What if I could never get pregnant again? What if, by some weird twist of fate, biology, or something, I just… don’t ever get pregnant again?

I got pregnant. On the first try.

Those two weeks of waiting to know if I was pregnant were excruciating at the time, but I hardly remember them now.

That pregnancy is now Fletcher, though the memories of that pregnancy feel like a fever dream not even remotely related to my sweet boy, just a crappy episode of life right before motherhood began. More on that later.

Now here’s where I insert a 700+ day long gap between menstrual cycles (yay!) thanks to pregnancy, birth, and lactational amenorrhea (the term for when breastfeeding suppresses the menstrual cycle).

I had a non-hormonal IUD placed shortly after Fletcher was born. Breastfeeding did suppress my menstrual cycle for a long time, but that’s not always a guarantee (and lactational amenorrhea is not 100% effective at preventing pregnancy).

Flash forward to when I began cycling again in late 2025.

After having no period for two years, I was shook-eth to say the least.

Ouch.

I got my IUD taken out shortly after that.

Not a coincidence; as my body came back to a baseline state, my mind was gearing up for another baby.

Third Schrödinger’s uterus

As Fletcher passed his first birthday and our decision to add a second kiddo to our family solidified, we decided it was off to the races.

I’d say I don’t know what I expected, but actually I do.

I’d gotten pregnant immediately, on the first cycle without birth control, the previous two times I’d gotten pregnant. So this time around should be the same, right?

Wrong.

The two-week wait is the toughest mental battle for me. Because there’s no way of knowing for sure if I’ve conceived or implanted. And it won’t be possible to know until hCg levels in my blood and urine reach a high enough concentration to turn a test strip positive.

So, like the good biologist and behaviorist I am, I look for signs.

I’m too good at symptom spotting for my own good.

Was that a tightening of my uterus? A sign of menstrual cramps? Or implantation?

Is this morning sickness nausea, or did I just have a bit too much coffee on an empty stomach? Or am I enjoying driving the Tesla a bit too much?

Car sick vs. pregnant sick vs. sick sick are all similar for me.

And then there’s this belief, this truth, this thought that I should just… know.

Of course I should know if I’m pregnant. I should be able to sense if there’s something growing inside of me, no larger than a few cells, barely more than a thought or a whisper.

I’m a woman, a mom, a creator of life. I should know, right?

Wrong.

You don’t know.

And, if you’re like me, you spend two weeks convincing yourself you are or are not pregnant. Whatever tale is easier to tell.

Excited? Pregnant—trust that mommy intuition.

Too excited? Not pregnant—don’t get your hopes up.

Back and forth, by the day, by the hour, by the minute.

Exhausting.

Exciting.

Exhausting.

Month after month.

You stop telling people, your husband and your best friend, the two people you’ve allowed yourself to divulge your list of possible symptoms. After all, they’re no more able to answer the yes/no question than you are.

So why drive them crazy too?

You sit with that question, that maybe, that possibility.

You are and are not pregnant at the same time.

On one hand, you get to start planning the nursery, how to introduce this new life to its older brother. There are names that live on that secret note in your phone. Boy or girl? Will those names still rise to the top?

And if you are pregnant, goodness gracious, you’re only 2 weeks along. 3 weeks, maybe closer to 4. That means you have 36 weeks left at best, holy hell.

Oh no. Pregnancy.

No, no, no. I nearly lost myself last time. That pit of nothingness, that shell of myself. I lost my autonomy, my body, my brain. My ability to think beyond the next few hours. That survival mode, that crawling to the fridge because you’re too exhausted but too nauseous to sleep so you have to force down some food or the cycle continues.

No, I don’t really want to do that again, do I?

So I pee on a stick. 2 days past ovulation.

I’m a goddamn biologist, I know that negative means nothing at this point. There’s no way my hCG is high enough.

But maybe you’re an outlier and it’ll turn positive early.

Bitch, you’re not.

I tell myself I’ll pee on a stick in two more days.

I last 36 hours.

Still negative.

I celebrate each 48 hour stretch I make it without testing, peeing on sticks in secrecy like I’m a teenager cutting class and smoking weed under the bleachers. I never did that, so this is my best approximation of the feeling.

I sneak the pregnancy tests because I don’t want my husband to realize how thoroughly I am obsessed with seeing those two lines, that “control” and its faint cousin, that yes.

Welcome back, Mama.

So I pee in secret and dip the stick and try to wait the five minutes but I barely make it five seconds as I nearly shove my nose in my own pee, staring so close at the crawl of ink along the white test strip.

The cat wants to stick his head in the cup of pee. He knocks the test strip off the counter. Shit.

Does that ruin it? If it’s negative, is it a true negative?

Should I take another test right now?

Oh my gosh Allison calm the f down, it’s only 5 days past ovulation. Well, 5 days past when your app thinks you ovulated based on minimal data, so who really knows. You’re probably just shooting in the dark.

Oh my gosh I’m so annoying to myself. Don’t text Katie again. Poor thing doesn’t need to ride this rollercoaster every damn month.

Negative.

I’m disappointed. I slink away, hiding my disappointment, though it’d be biologically improbable to get a positive test this early on.

And this cycle repeats. Until I feel my uterus clench and menstruation begins and it’s not a pregnancy. It’s just a bloody couple days of cleaning myself up like I’m somehow the biggest baby in this house.

Ugh.

And then we repeat.

There’s an odd relief and an odd sadness. And by the time I’m done bleeding, I start on up again, getting excited. Planning names. Calculating the due date for a bundle of cells that hasn’t even been conceived yet.

It’s a weird space to live, with a Schrödinger’s uterus. Always maybe.

Oh, by the way. After 7 months of no’s, this time I was right. I’m pregnant.

Baby 2 coming early 2027 🩷

👋🏻 Meet your Monkey Girl

Hi, I’m Allison aka Monkey Girl—a published author, PhD scientist, and trusted book editor.

I’m reclaiming my story, one chapter, one essay, one monkey at a time. Read the latest chapters of my romcom Love Letter to Wanderlust every Monday, and keep your eyes peeled for my 👣 Path to Published series and occasional longer essays.

When I’m not typing away at my computer, I’m usually on a plane with my husband and toddler, or defending my three very patient cats from my very excited toddler.

Thanks for being here, truly. If you have thoughts, questions, anything, send me a message. I read every word and I’d love to hear from you.

Photography by the brilliant c.m.elle studios.

Hi. It’s me. I’m pregnant (again), and apparently the only way I know how to process anything is to write about it in public, so here we are.

BIG DUMB MAMMAL. is a new series inside Monkey Girl. Not a new publication, not a new me — same jungle, new corner of it.

I’ve never felt more reduced to my own biology than I have during pregnancy, and the name is exactly what it sounds like: the humbling, occasionally hilarious experience of realizing that underneath the birth plans and the prenatal yoga and cutesy birth announcements, I am just a mammal, doing the oldest and most fundamental thing a mammal can do.

Prior to getting pregnant, I assumed I’d be a gorgeous goddess enjoying my plump belly and eating everything in the fridge. The reality is… I’m less goddess, much more bridge troll. I wish someone had told me the realities of 3D printing a human with your body. So that’s what this is here: real life in real time.

Here’s what you’ll find in this new series:

• 📏 Actual Size — a weekly check-in on how big this baby actually is. Not “the size of a mango.” The real specifics. I’m aiming for humanoid size comparisons like “LEGO figurine” or “Poly Pocket”, not “kiwi” or “leek” because what in the world does a leek-shaped fetus look like???

• 📓 The Diary — real-time entries from inside this pregnancy. Not curated. Not tidy. Just what it’s actually like, week to week. I’m a biologist. I observe things. I’m living in this case study and boy do I have thoughts.

• 🕯️ Before This One — longer essays looking back at the pregnancies that came before this one. This is the pillar closest to my chest, and I’m going to take my time with it.

• A fourth, unnamed element. Ideally, I want to be able to share other peoples’ stories, not just my own. Despite us all being mammals and the blueprint of reproduction being largely the same for many of us, every person has their own unique birth story, challenges, and triumphs.

If you’ve been here for the monkeys and my romcom Love Letter to Wanderlust and Path to Published, this is going to feel like a different room in the same house. Same me. Different volume, different subject, occasionally more bodily horror than you signed up for.

A quick, no-guilt note on your settings

Because this is a new section and not a new publication, you’ve been automatically added to it — which means some of you are about to get emails about my uterus that you did not ask for.

If pregnancy content isn’t your thing right now, for any reason, you can turn just this section off without leaving Monkey Girl at all:

1. Go to substack.com/settings (or tap the unsubscribe link at the bottom of any email from me)

2. Under Subscriptions, click on Monkey Girl

3. Scroll to Notifications and find BIG. DUMB. MAMMAL. in the list. Toggle it off — you’ll stay subscribed to everything else

That’s it. No explanation needed, no hard feelings, no passive-aggressive monkey emojis. This goes for any section, any time — if Love Letter to Wanderlust or Path to Published aren’t your thing either, same steps apply.

For everyone sticking around: thank you. This one’s going to be a little more unfiltered than usual, and I’m glad to have you along for it.

👋🏻 Meet your Monkey Girl

Hi, I’m Allison aka Monkey Girl—a published author, PhD scientist, and trusted book editor.

I’m reclaiming my story, one chapter, one essay, one monkey at a time. Read my romcom Love Letter to Wanderlust, and keep your eyes peeled for my 👣 Path to Published series.

My latest and loudest series to date is BIG. DUMB. MAMMAL. where I’m sharing all the details of pregnancy, from the perspective of a biologist living this process in real time.

When I’m not typing away at my computer, I’m usually on a plane with my husband and toddler, or defending my three very patient cats from said toddler.

Thanks for being here, truly. If you have thoughts, questions, anything, send me a message. I read every word and I’d love to hear from you.

Photography by the brilliant c.m.elle studios.