If someone tells me that one more time, I swear I will be forced to go postal.

My body is betraying me, my mind in a constant state of denial about what is not currently happening in the area right around my bellybutton.

I'm charting my temperature each morning, trying to see an ovulation pattern evolve. I'm taking all the right vitamins, I've deleted all the right foods from my diet, I've taken up exercise on a more-than-sporadic basis and I'm beginning to see some results. I'm turning into quite the little scientist.
Mad Scientist, more like.

And it's all for naught. Just how is that possible? Irrationally, I feel as though I'm being punished for some long-forgotten transgression. I move through a wide range of emotions at the speed of sound: depression as yet another month goes by without success, rage at my body and at The Boy's obviously inadequate sperm, resignation that I will always be an Auntie, never a Mom, determination that next month will be different, despair as I realize I'm powerless to make the statement I made when I was determined.

Then, when I actually escape the myriad voices in my head for a few scant moments, I see sense. Maybe the rest of the world is right, maybe I'm not pregnant yet because there's something I need to do first. Maybe a job move, maybe I need to lose another 15 pounds in order to act as a healthier vessel for my child to start their little life.

Maybe it's my generation's need for Immediate Gratification. I'm not sure why that particular quirk was highlighted to such a degree with us, but there it is. Also, being 'a bit' of a perfectionist means my pride is taking 'a bit' of a beating lately. I should be able to do this. It's not supposed to be difficult. Thousands of women do this each and every day.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The truth is, maybe it's all a crapshoot.

Maybe.

Posted at 1:55 p.m.