One Year

I realized the other day that we've now been trying to have a second child for a full year. It doesn't seem like it's been that long, and I assume that it's because I actually have gotten pregnant twice. It's not like we had 12 consecutive months of annoying two-week-waits followed by disappointment.

It's kind of hard to absorb that, if things had worked out like we'd hoped, we'd have a new baby by now. There are moments when this knowledge makes me want to kick and scream and throw things. And then there are moments when I fool myself into believing that I'm ok with this, that no matter what happens, this time of trying is only temporary. That one way or another, things will work out. That in three years, I will be able to make love to my husband without the insane greek chorus in my mind chanting "did it work? Am I pregnant?" all the time.

But at this point, I'd say that my overwhelming emotion is one of want. So desperately do I want to be pregnant this month that I started testing four days ago, even though today is the absolute earliest day I could half-reasonably expect a positive test (and, for the record, I've pledged not to test again until at least tomorrow, because I'm going to go blind if I keep squinting to see lines that aren't there. Plus, my period isn't even due until Friday). I've poked my chest so often that I can no longer tell if it's sore from hormones or from being poked all the damn time.

Patience has never been one of my more notable virtues, but I fear I have slipped off the deep end here. If I'm not pregnant this month, I'd better find a way to regain my sanity, but quick.