EVERY OTHER DAY

My friend Heather has been telling me all along that I need to employ her successful baby-making method of "trying" every other day. For all this long while, the idea of undertaking such an endeavor has been downright laughable. Between work and exercise and commitments and errands and chores and stress and tiredness, we're generally doing a victory dance if we have sex during the work week at all. But every other day?! That's cute. That's impossible.

However, I'm starting to approach something like desperation. 80 percent of couples who are going to conceive do it within the first six months. Within the second six months, that amount goes up by only 5 percent (i.e., 85 percent of couples trying to conceive succeed within the first year). I don't know if it's statistically accurate to say we have a 5 percent chance of conceiving between now and April, but it's something like that. So at this point, I'll try just about anything. (I even spent one afternoon researching fertility-enhancing supplements like FertilAid; I was scared off by the negative reviews, but I wouldn't be surprised to find myself blogging about my personal experience with it in a couple months' time.)

It was really awesome timing to try the every-other-day thing in December, a dizzying month of trimming the tree, baking cookies, sending out cards, gift shopping and attending holiday parties. And this year, in addition to my annual holiday hallmarks, the to-do list is a bit longer than usual, including but not limited to the following items: participating in a tourism panel in Panama City Beach, planning and co-hosting a bridal shower and bachelorette party in Bradenton, and helping my sister- and brother-in-law move into their new house.

So, amid all that noise, we set out to fit in some whoopee every other day. Here's a breakdown of how it went.

12-1: Period is over; we have a Christmas date planned to the SPCA holiday party/fundraiser -- game on. Success!

12-3: We are invited for the first time to a holiday party at the house of our wealthy, plugged-in neighbors. I'm intimidated, but I figure it'll be an adrenaline rush to mix with their cultured friends, and once we get home, things will flow from there. That is not how the day goes. I botch the cheesy artichoke triangles I attempt to make; we rush to find a replacement hors d'oeuvre at the grocery store, where I have a total insecurity meltdown; Philip is initially patient but finally reaches his threshold with my deflated attitude; an argument ensues; we don't go to the party; we are lucky we end up in the same bed for a restless night of sleep. Fail.

12-5: We are supposed to have Bible study, but I make an executive decision that getting back on the sex train is a higher priority. We skip and have a very nice night of making up. Success!

12-7: My flight to Panama City Beach leaves at 3:50 p.m. We plan for Philip to come home for a little afternoon delight before taking me to the airport. Success again! We're on a roll!

12-9: I fly from Panama City Beach into Tampa, because I'm attending a bridal shower in Bradenton in the morning. Philip makes the drive over to pick me up from the airport; we've planned to rendezvous at a Courtyard Marriott for the night. When I arrive at 7:30 p.m., we're both tired and hungry, and we don't have a plan (dinner first? check in to the hotel first?). We're bickering before we've even left the airport. The evening continues to deteriorate from there. By the time we go to bed, we're able to civilly watch cable TV together, but ain't no sex gonna happen tonight. Fail.

12-10: Today is supposed to be an off-day, but time is now of the essence, so get up on your horse, cowboy. We cram in a quickie before I have to be at the shower at 10 a.m. Success!

12-11: I have just successfully helped pull off a bridal shower and bachelorette party in the same day. After getting five hours of sleep, vomiting in the toilet, and taking a miserable two-hour car ride back to Orlando, I finally arrive home, where the only thing I can think about is a shower, my pajamas, and a nap. I sleep for four hours and still feel hungover when I wake up. Philip has also just endured a marathon bachelor day at Epcot, and we're not only tired of having sex, we're just TIRED. I decide to take an ovulation test; if there's no smiley face, there's no chance in hell we're going to do it. But alas. There's that happy little face, taunting me. What ensues has to be similar to what it would be like if two paralyzed people tried to consummate their love. Success. Five hours later, Philip gets up to catch his flight to Tucson, where he'll be on a work trip for the next three days. If no baby was made, people, it was NOT for lack of effort.

Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

ANNA MARIA ISLAND

Though our getaway to Anna Maria Island wasn't fruitful in the baby-making sense, Philip and I had a wonderful weekend connecting. It pretty much requires us leaving town in order to carve out time for recreation and relaxation. Here are some photos from our excursion.

Abbi doesn't want us to go ... Or maybe she wants to come with. Sorry, Sweetie, Mom and Dad don't need any distractions, even really cute, furry ones.

The first full day, it was pretty chilly, so we rented bikes and cycled around Robinson Nature Preserve, which was gorgeous -- we saw loads of tropical birds, a snake, mangroves, and lots of fish in the estuaries.

Here's me at our lunch spot on the waterfront.

The preserve also has a really cool lookout tower that affords a bird's-eye view of the bay. This is a photo taken from the top.

One of our favorite things about the Gulf is the beautiful sunset, so we made sure to watch every night. Our rental house was only 100 steps from the beach, which made it easy. We walked this little path to access the beach.

The second day was warmer, so we relaxed on the sand with a couple of books to read. We really had the best time. With all of our responsibilities far away in Orlando, we were free to focus on each other, which made our baby-making attempts frequent, natural and intimate. I wish we could go away every month during ovulation!

I have to admit, my hopes were pretty high that this break from the norm was all we needed. Not so. As we enter month eight of trying, it's hard to remain hopeful; clearly I'm no Fertile Myrtle. But it's still a blessing to be able to enjoy little trips like this and to spend time in the wonder of creation.

PARENTHOOD

In a successful attempt to cheer me recently, my friend Melissa rapped about all the "bummers" of parenthood. I enjoyed her tongue-in-cheek comments so much, I asked her if I could share them with my readers. She gave me the green light, so here it is, for your reading pleasure!
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Preface
I absolutely love [my daughter] Claire, and I really would throw myself in front of a bus for her. It's like my friends Rebecca and Joel put on their first child's birth announcement: "We thought we knew love, and then came Stella." I've never forgotten that because it became so real to me when I had Claire. It's this crazy protective love that you didn't even know exists. And yes, children are totally a huge blessing ... but if I may ... and totally for your benefit I hope ...

 

Physical Health and Hygiene

I frequently go two months without shaving my legs or bikini line. Please note that I had a C-section and I was freshly shorn way north of my original bikini line for that surgery, so my current bikini line ... well ... it's a bit higher than it used to be.

 

Showers are for function, not fun (or fornication for that matter). There's simply not enough time.

 

Fixing my hair means I blow-dried it, brushed it and didn't pull it back in a ponytail, as opposed to letting it air-dry with half of it sitting on top of my head and then putting it in a ponytail later.

 

I don't exercise. Actually, I started running again in August in an attempt to lose 20 pounds (I never lost all the weight after having Claire). After a month of getting up at 6 a.m. to run and shower before Claire woke up, I lost a half-pound and people said, "Are you losing weight?" It must've been a really big half-pound.

 

My boobs are, as Holly puts it, deflated balloons. Totally saggy and squishy and never to be perky again. (They are one cup size bigger, but big whoop, ya know? That just means I had to go out and buy all new bras.)

 

I have little red bumps on the back of my arms that I have heard occur during pregnancy. They never go away.

 

Due to that relaxin hormone, my joints swelled/expanded, and my fingers are permanently bigger. I haven't worn my wedding ring since February 2010.

 

Sleep, as you know it, is gone.

 

Environment

I clean my house every 9-10 weeks. That's right. The clean neat freak from college has a filthy, pube-infested bathroom. It is rotten nasty and I've accepted it. You think you won't accept that that's the way it's going to be, but eventually, you do.

 

If you have any home-improvement projects in the works, get to workin', because it's near impossible to do so when you have kids.

 

Social/Relational

Jerry and I have not been on a date in three months. It seems like it would be so easy, but here's why it's not. There is a shortage of good babysitters; even girls from our church are not always as good as we hope they will be. Even if you have a good babysitter, it's nerve-wracking to leave your child with her because what if the baby starts wailing uncontrollably and the sitter can't get her calmed down, or what if the baby doesn't take a bottle for the sitter or go to sleep for the sitter ... ? Plus, you're just too tired.

 

We don't see our friends often. We just don't. No time. Plus, if they don't have kids, you have to get a babysitter to hang out with them if you're going out to dinner or doing an adults-only type thing.

 

I have time to check my e-mail only once or twice a week. Example: This e-mail right here that I'm typing is like eight days late.

 

I cancelled my Facebook account because I never had time to check it.

 

God

Stopped reading my Bible altogether and rarely pray. Now, however, I'm in Bible Study Fellowship, and I read a little bit almost every day. I go to the meetings on Monday evenings, and Jerry stays home with Claire. I'm learning a lot.

 

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Post Script

I wrote Melissa back to say, "I already don't do the following on a regular basis: shower, shave, exercise, do my hair, clean, go out, improve my house, respond to emails in a timely fashion, read my Bible ... So I'm really screwed when we finally do have kids!"

 

Her reply: "No Erika -- the fact that you don't do all those things is only going to make the transition easier. Trust me. It'll be like, 'Oh well, I didn't X, Y, Z before Petunia was born anyway.'"

 

INSANE IN THE MEMBRANE

Albert Einstein said, "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." Every month, as I faithfully chart my cycle each day and pee on ovulation-predictor sticks, perfectly timing our conception efforts, I think of this quote. We keep doing the same exact thing, month after month, expecting that magically, this time, it will work.

Not surprisingly, once again, it did not work. You would think my high levels of hope followed by disappointment would begin to drop after six months of this pattern. With Einstein's quote in mind, my logical brain is fully expecting a period, not a pregnancy. Yet hope creeps into my heart, despite my best efforts to squash it. Doctors and Web articles don't help; they just say to keep trying, like Einstein didn't know what he was talking about. Try for a year. Sometimes it just takes a while. Up to 85 percent of couples trying to conceive will succeed within 12 months.

I like things to make sense though. (So weird, I know.) It doesn't make sense that if we keep just repeating these exact same steps, one of these times, it'll stick. There has to be something happening. Or not happening. What is it? How can I fix it?

Some people say, have sex more. Seems logical. Other people say, have sex less; you don't want to lower sperm counts. Thus, in the words of Liz Lemon, blerg.

Some people tell me, just relax. As soon as you stop thinking about it, it'll happen. Well, that's sort of true. I'm sure it would help my chances if I could just chill out. Stress can delay ovulation; it can make me feel like doing anything but have sex; and who knows what other physiological effects it may have. But at the same time, we've gotta time it right, and I won't know if we're timing it right unless I'm keeping track. And I simply don't know how to keep track without growing mildly obsessive.

So here's my plan for November. I'm getting out of Dodge. I'm taking Philip with me. For three nights, we're leaving behind work, responsibilities, fertility charts and OPKs. We're staying in a rental villa on an island in Florida, one that has a nice bed. We've timed the trip around my best guess at when I'll ovulate, but we're just going to be intimate when the mood strikes -- no happy faces, no thermometers, no carefully noting the consistency of my cervical fluid.

I just had to change it up this month; I was starting to feel insane.

THE DOCTOR IS IN

I have been trying to follow my sister-in-law's advice from my last post, which I summarize as: Do everything. Keep trying. Keep traveling. Keep having fun. Keep trusting God. And go to the doctor.

I was due for my annual check-up at the OBGYN, but I had been debating about whether or not to inquire about fertility testing when I went in for my appointment. It seemed a bit like jumping the gun, or to be really Bible-y about it, pulling an Abraham and taking matters into my own hands (minus the sleeping-with-the-help thing). To wit, we've only* been trying in earnestness for five months.

On the other hand, we've been off of any form of birth control for 13 months, and during the first half of that time period, we used the "fertility awareness method" as contraception with progressively less vigilance each month.

I took Sara's nudge as my green light. After all, she's a sonographer, so she deals with this kind of thing all the time. So I called the OB and scheduled an annual exam, plus a fertility consultation.

Let's just be honest: Going to the OB for a pap smear is the absolute pits. I'd almost rather have a tooth drilled. You're given a piece of paper to wear while the doctor cranks open your hoo-ha with a cold metal tool. Now I was adding to that experience a conversation about the dreaded i word -- infertility. (I just shuddered. It's worse than uttering "Voldemort.")

The anticipation of the appointment was actually much worse than the appointment itself. My doctor is very professional, and her office is very clean and inviting. The fertility consultation took all of three minutes. She was skeptical about starting testing ("We usually tell couples to try for a year"), but agreed to it when I meekly said I was ready to start getting some answers. I also pulled the "I'm over 30" card, which I think tipped the balance.

The first step was coming in for a pelvic ultrasound, which they perform there in the office. She would meet with me right afterward to discuss the scans. I scheduled the appointment for a week later.

Again, I anticipated the appointment with dread. The sonogram was vaginal, and what would that be like? And how would I react if there was something wrong? Lauren asked me what I hoped the results would be. "Well ..." I thought for a minute. "I hope there's something super minor wrong that can be easily fixed with some meds."

The morning of the appointment, I spent extra time getting ready. Full makeup, full hair, nice outfit. I looked very put-together, to cover up the fact that inside I was a big gross twisted knot. A pregnant girl (yes, "girl," not woman) sat across from me in the waiting room. She was holding a teddy bear the doctor's office had given her, and she was filling out forms with cute pink sketches of babies all over them. Do not fall apart, I ordered myself, blinking back tears and swallowing a lump of irrational rage.

First came a urine sample, then the ultrasound, which was way easier than the pap. We took a look at my insides, which actually makes for pretty riveting TV. There was my uterus, looking like a half-inflated whoopie cushion. There was one ovary. There was the other. I allowed myself one self-pitiful moment of wishing we were looking at a fetus. "Good luck!" chirped the sonographer as she exited the room after finishing.

Back out to the waiting room to wait for my OB. Pregnant Girl was gone. Good. Then back to a treatment room. I read half of a month-old issue of People while I waited, heart pounding.

Finally Dr. Danna entered. "Well," she announced, "everything was normal with your pap. And the ultrasound looks good too -- normal-sized uterus, normal-sized ovaries; the uterine walls are the right thickness." She also said something about a cyst that was consistent with ovulation, meaning I had ovulated -- something I already knew, but it was still gratifying to hear.

She encouraged me to have Philip tested, and she gave me the name of a reproductive specialist to call. She said something twice about "establishing myself" with them, which I didn't love; I don't want to become a fixture with those people. But whatever. Next step would be to have the specialist draw blood to check my hormones.

I left MASSIVELY relieved. I was wrong about what I told Lauren -- it was way better to hear that everything is fine. Once again, the appointment itself had been way less of a deal than worrying about it.

Now I've decided to give the testing route a rest for a couple of weeks. We'll know soon enough if we were successful this month, and I'm trying to keep my emotions in check. Two doctor's appointments in one month is enough for my fragile psyche. It's still possible that nothing whatsoever is wrong with me or Philip, and I'm not ready to fully concede to the i word just yet.

*When people say to me that it's "only" been five months, I have to restrain myself from ripping their heads off, as each month feels like an eternity when you're unsuccessfully trying to get pregnant.

FIVE MONTHS

Erika,

I'm thinking of you guys tonight at work. I just scanned a woman who is 7 weeks pregnant with twins. She and her husband are in the ER because she has vaginal bleeding. They have been trying to get pregnant for two years. They are emotionally drained as they have been on a roller coaster over the last two years and, especially, today as they fear miscarriage. Watching their raw emotions broke my heart. I actually struggled not to cry while scanning them and listening to their tears, fears, and the husband's sweet whispered support. I'm not sure that the babies are going to make it, but I am praying for them. I am praying for you guys too. I hope that your journey to parenthood is short and without complications, despite your current frustration.

love you guys,

Sara

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Sara, your message really means a lot to me -- thank you! That is so sad about your patient. After the joy of finally conceiving after all that time, I can't imagine the crushing blow that it must be to fear that you're miscarrying. :(

I really appreciate your prayers. I've started spotting, which means my period is about to start, so I already had a good cry about that last night. So we have been trying for five months now unsuccessfully. I don't really know what to think ... Do I stop charting? Do I make an appointment with the ob? Do we just keep on doing what we've been doing, even though it hasn't been working? Do I stay hopeful? Do I let it go? Do I just assume we aren't meant to have kids and start thinking about future trips and other goals? Do I look into adoption? Or am I completely overreacting, as they say 85 percent of couples get pregnant within a year of trying? It is indeed very draining.

Thank you again for your loving note. 

XO,

E

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Erika, I think that you should hang in there. Not everyone gets pregnant immediately. Sometimes it does take time. I think that you should continue to plan fun things for the two of you. Although you are trying, you are not parents yet. You should still travel, be spontaneous, and have all the parentless fun that you can. This is the season of life that you are in now. Enjoy the present. In the future you will be parents and that will be a whole new lifestyle. A different kind of fun. Keep trying, but enjoy today or you are going to miss it completely. Don't be shy with your doctor. At five months out, your doctor may not be helpful or encouraging, but don't be scared to speak with him/her. Ask what your options are. Ask if you can be referred to a specialist. God will bless you with a baby in His time. Remember, His time is very different from our time. Thankfully, His time is perfect.

Sara

DEUS EX MASSAGE

Tonight I had my fourth massage by Danielle at Massage Envy. I have a membership there, a gift from Philip that makes me feel both supremely thankful and also pretty indulgent. But my close friend Audrey insists I keep making appointments there to take care of myself and keep my stress and anxiety at bay, as stress can delay ovulation, cause illness and in general prevent Philip and me from being in the mood to do that which we need to do to achieve our goal of getting pregnant.

I keep going back to Danielle because she's not only skilled at massage therapy, but she also struck me as being attentive from the first time she treated me. She found my trouble spots and, just from interpreting my muscle tension, was even able to deduce that I sit at a computer for a living.

As I drove to the appointment tonight, I thought about how I wanted to tell her Philip and I are trying to conceive, as maybe there's some specific technique she could use that might help. At the very least, I wanted to tell her I was under a higher-than-normal amount of stress lately and needed all her soothing powers to be in full force. But being shy, I didn't say a word.

During my other sessions with Danielle, we haven't spoken, which is how I like it. I just want to enjoy the massage and not be bothered. This time though, just a couple minutes into the massage, she asked me a strange question: "I feel like I know you from outside Massage Envy. Do you go to church anywhere?"

"My husband and I have been to Summit Church before," I responded through the hole in the face rest. "Have you heard of it?"

"Oh yeah," she said. "My husband and I go to the Plaza location."

Though we didn't ever figure out how we might have crossed paths outside the clinic, her question opened the door to a conversation that was even more life-giving than the massage. We talked about church and marriage and buying a house; she and her husband of less than a year are closing on a place this Friday. Then she asked me directly, "Do you have kids?"

"No," I said. "We're trying. It's so stressful."

"Yeah," she said with genuine sympathy. "How long have you been trying?"

"Four months," I answered.

"That's not that long."

"Yeah, but it feels like forever."

"I'm sure," she said reassuringly. "I recommend that you keep getting massages as often as you can. They stimulate blood flow and help with relaxation."

"Yes, ma'am!" I joked.

I told her about Toni Weschler's book, Taking Charge of your Fertility, and how I'd been off birth control and charting for more than a year. I explained OPKs and asked her about acupuncture. We discussed the documentary The Business of Being Born and birthing-center versus hospital births and my friends' various experiences with both. And she shared with me about being present recently as her sister was in labor; Danielle was there massaging her in the delivery room.

Then I shared with her about how Philip and I had been quarreling because of the stress of trying to conceive, about how it was much harder than I had anticipated. I said praying every morning was a lifeline, and I was trying to trust God. She immediately affirmed me. "Yes, He is in control, despite how often we try to plan everything out, and His timing is often different from ours. But you can trust Him to know what's best."

Let's all just pause for a moment and remember that I'm face-down on a massage table talking to someone whose previous words to me hadn't gone beyond, "How's the pressure?" Given our unique circumstances, I received Danielle's words as a simple reminder from above, and coming from her open heart, they didn't sound trite in the slightest.

Danielle was so kind and encouraging, so interested and compassionate. I felt a true emotional connection with her and was so uplifted by her listening ear. When the massage was over and she stepped out of the room so I could dress, I laid on the massage table and welled up a little; a wave washed over my spirit that said, "This is Me, showing you how much I love you, child." I am often confused by the Bible and feel uncomfortable with evangelicalism, but I can't deny these personal experiences with God, where it feels like he comes down out of heaven and dwells, of all places, in a treatment room of a massage clinic.

As I was leaving, Danielle said, "I'll be praying for you! I look forward to your next appointment to find out what happened!" I am just so ridiculously blessed.

OPKs and BFFs

Discussing Philip's upcoming work travel a couple weeks back, he and I ran into a predicament: I suspected I would ovulate during a particular week, and he was supposed to be in Huntsville, Alabama, for work during said week.

As you may realize, in order for a child to be conceived, the mother and father have to be in the same state during the time of ovulation. But further complicating things is that unlike all you lucky ladies who ovulate "like clockwork," my cycle likes to keep things interesting.

"Can you be SURE you'll ovulate that week?" asked Philip, who was reticent to change his travel plans — and those of all his colleagues — for my best shot in the dark. No, I could not be sure, but it was a definite possibility.

The whole conversation was frustrating and felt lose-lose. If he traveled, he would likely miss my ovulation. If he postponed his trip, he would aggravate his coworkers, and it would be a whole ordeal. Philip travels often for work, so this wasn't the first time we'd gotten into such a jam. He ultimately decided to change the travel dates, which made me feel both grateful and guilty.

The next day at work, I shared what had happened with my good friend Lauren over IM. "I JUST started a new cycle, and the situation is already loaded up with pressure and conflict," I bemoaned.

Lauren listened compassionately and offered her encouragement. I went on, "It doesn't help that my cycle is just such a guessing game. I think I'm ready to try an ovulation-predictor kit (OPK)."

"Is that the one with the smiley face?" Lauren asked.

"I don't know!" I said. "What's that?"

She went on to tell me about a friend of hers who had a pee test she took every morning; when she wasn't about to ovulate, the result was a frowny face, and when she was about to ovulate, it turned into a smiley face. The friend awoke hungover one morning, took the test, and got her smiley face — so she woke up her equally hungover husband, knew him in the biblical sense, and successfully conceived.

"What kind of OPK do you want?" she asked me.

"I don't know," I said. "I haven't researched them much. They're pretty expensive, so it's hard to justify. But that smiley-face one sounds awesome!"

"Don't buy it," she typed from her computer. "It'll be here in three to five business days."

It took me a minute to realize what had happened: Lauren had just gone ahead and bought me an OPK online.

The act delighted and humbled me. In addition to being a good listener and offering uplifting words, Lauren did something — something pretty unconventional (how many people do you know who have bought their friends OPKs?) — for me. No more waffling about whether an OPK was worth the money; it was on the way.

A few days later, when I got to my work cubicle, there was a small box wrapped in brown paper and a green ribbon. I started testing the very next day. (When you're not about to ovulate, only an empty circle appears — sadly, there is no frowny face. Joking about this later with some girlfriends, we said they could really get more creative with it, like, when you're not about to ovulate, it says something like, "Not yet! Chill out!" And then when you are about to ovulate, it says, "Get busy!")

I tested for about five days when I observed one of my body's natural cues that ovulation was imminent. Sure enough, the next morning, the OPK concurred: I got my smiley face!

It was a relief to have a concrete piece of technology verify when was the best time to try. It was a relief that it aligned with my own fertility charting. And it was a giant relief to know that I have good friends who have my back, not only with prayers and encouraging words, but also with bold, get-'er-done actions that help to solve my problems. I hope I'm the same kind of friend to others.

THE FLOOD

On Sunday, the day after our anniversary, I awoke in a funk, proving once again what a leaky vessel I truly am. With the excitement of our celebration behind us, I had nothing to distract me from dwelling on my current reality: After three months of targeted trying, we are still not pregnant.

I moped around all day. Philip asked me several times what was wrong, but I didn't know how to articulate it. I was just down. At least I'm not hysterically crying like last month, I thought to myself. That's an improvement.

At some point in the afternoon, Philip took a call from a friend. Later, he approached me as I was glumly pulling laundry out of the dryer. "I need to tell you something," he said solemnly. His news: Some friends of ours, who are actually trying to avoid pregnancy right now, accidentally conceived. The friends had called because they care about me and wanted me to know, but didn't know how to tell me, as they sensitively assumed it would be difficult news for me to receive.

When Philip delivered this revelation to me, I wish I could tell you I reacted calmly, rationally, appropriately. But instead, I immediately started sobbing like a total maniac. The jealousy, the anger, the fear, the confusion all welled up in me so fast and viscerally that there was no stopping the flood. Almost as quickly, a wave of shame washed over me for feeling so selfish, which only made me cry harder. So much for keeping my emotions in check this month.

What is God doing? Why do some people become pregnant when they don't even want to be, while I want to be and can't achieve it? It doesn't make any sense, and of course, I want things to make sense. Philip and I are emotionally ready. We're financially stable. We're healthy. We've had a good many years to tenderly develop our infant marriage into a more mature one. We seem like perfect candidates for parenthood.

Of course, we haven't been trying that long, but nevertheless, the various fears come at me like arrows ...

What if there's something medically wrong with me or Philip or both of us?
What if we waited too long to even start trying?
What if I get so resentful toward friends who have children that I ruin the friendships?
What if God thinks my marital relationship isn't strong enough for Philip and I to be good parents?
What if God thinks I'll be too helpless with a child?
What if God doesn't think those things, but our friends think God thinks those things?
What if God is trying to teach me something? What is it? Why don't so many other people have to learn it? Can't I learn it some other way that's not so difficult?
Am I being naive if I believe God has some perfect timing He's waiting for or some greater plan I just can't see right now?

Now, as the menstrual hormones begin to subside, the fog in my head begins to clear. Hope returns, almost supernaturally. Miraculously, the fears retreat to a more remote corner of my mind, and I can again bear to read various friends' baby-centric statuses on Facebook. And when it comes to our couple friends who accidentally conceived, I find myself happy for them and ready to hear their whole story.

SIX YEARS

On Friday, I started to spot, so I knew what was coming. I was disappointed of course, but knowing the following day was set aside to celebrate six years of marriage with Philip was a major boon to my spirit. We had the whole day to do as we pleased, without the interruption of chores, errands, work or other people (no offense, other people). I was just hoping the full onslaught of my period would wait at least until Sunday so I could have sex with my husband on our anniversary.

Using the crossover of our wish lists, we decided to head to Rock Springs, but were turned away at 10 a.m. because the park was already full. After making a mental note to ourselves that we should never again attempt to visit Rock Springs during the summer on a weekend day (this has happened to us two or three times before), we made a U turn and headed to Canaveral National Seashore.

On the way, we made a pit stop at Walmart to buy beach chairs and a beach umbrella. This purchase pretty much doubled the amount of beach paraphernalia we had to schlep, but it was totally worthwhile -- Philip discovered he all of a sudden went from feeling like he could tolerate the beach to actually liking it!

All settled in under our umbrella, with the pristine sand dunes behind us, we dug into the lunch Philip had packed: an assortment of snacks, my favorite. Then we took a walk, we swam in the waves, and I read my book while Philip took a nap. It was perfect.

After we got back home and showered, Philip played bartender and mixed us each a cocktail that we enjoyed while chatting on the sofa. Then we decided to grab dinner at 310 Park South. Being so late, there was no wait at the restaurant, and an acoustic guitarist was even performing. We both really enjoyed our entrees and splurged on a mousse for dessert.

Lingering over each bite as the restaurant began to clear out, the lighting dim and the guitarist gently singing in the background, I felt that we were hanging in one of those rare transcendent moments when all is right and we are more in love than ever before. I gazed at him across the table and began to reflect on our six years of marriage, going from young, naive newlyweds to full-blown adults. How do you hold six years in your head -- all the laughter, all the arguments, all the lovemaking, all the bill paying, all the trips, all the quiet nights at home?

We just finished reading and discussing the last chapter of Love & War with our small group this week, and the authors write, "There are couples who find their way to something beautiful. Truly beautiful. We pray that you will be among ... those who find their way to a beautiful and powerful marriage. But there is no guarantee of course. So why bother? Why risk it? Why throw yourself wholeheartedly into such a dangerous, costly, and uncertain enterprise?"

In preparation for our small-group meeting, Philip and I discussed this question. Are we willing to throw ourselves wholeheartedly into our marriage? Why?

Our answer, of course, is yes, for myriad reasons. First off, happily, we still like each other. We still want each other. We still enjoy spending time together. But we have experienced moments when that's not entirely true, and we know more are bound to be ahead. So what about those times? Why fight for the marriage then?

The Sunday-school answer is that we want to obey God and honor our vows, and the gut-level answer is that when we don't get along, we hope things between us will change and improve in the future. The book's answer is that you fight for marriage because the whole point of life is learning to love, even when it's really crazy hard.

My answer included all these reasons, plus the one that is especially poignant on an anniversary -- I don't want to throw away all that we've built. Over six years, we've created a life from scratch that is so intertwined, I wouldn't know who I was without it. Our home, our families, our friends, our cats, our neighborhood, our finances, our routine, our diet, our values, our bucket list. The way we've learned each other -- what makes him mad, what turns her on, what brightens his day, what calms her down. The way we've figured out how to run our household like a well-oiled machine (most of the time). How hard we worked to surmount huge challenges like buying a house, finishing grad school and wrestling through this peculiar endeavor of trying to conceive. And our memories! So many memories that are so precious, so priceless, I would never want to diminish their value by walking away.

I thought about all these things as I studied Philip's face from across the table. It wasn't so articulate, but the complex symphony of all our years together flashed through my thoughts, and I felt overwhelmed -- with gratitude, with satisfaction, with love.

And when we got home, we took advantage of the fact that my period did, in fact, wait to fully assail me until Monday. And that's all I'll say about that.

OPPOSITES ATTRACT

Lately Philip and I have been reflecting on how we've evolved as individuals over our eight years of being a couple — and how it seems either one or both of us has lost interest in many of the pastimes that first brought us together (live music, church leadership, theme parks, etc.). We have drifted apart from some of our mutual friends from the early days of our relationship, and we've made many new friends (some together but many individually). We've also picked up new hobbies that don't always overlap — Philip's interest in craft beer has increased exponentially, while I've gotten into, well, crafts. And it seems that with even the little decisions in life, we often don't align. I want to walk around the lake; he wants to run. I want pepperoni on my pizza; he wants a pile of veggies. He votes The Wire; I vote The Good Wife. He wants to try a brand-new restaurant; I want a meal that's tried-and-true. You get the idea.

So as our six-year wedding anniversary approached, I wasn't sure what we should do to celebrate. I contemplated taking a trip — travel continues to be the one shared interest that has brought us connection and renewal again and again. But with our anniversary sandwiched between two work trips for Philip, it seemed like too much.

Then I tried to guess things he'd like to do — activities that aren't necessarily my thing, but that I could psyche myself up to participate in for his sake. But that seemed a little martyrish, and besides, it's hard to truly enjoy something with someone when you know they're not really into it. And I didn't want to drag him along on what was solely my idea of a good time either.

So I had an idea: He can make a list of things that sound fun to him, totally putting out of his mind any thoughts like, "I shouldn't include this, because Erika may not like it." And I would do the same. Then we'd compare notes, see if there was any overlap, and come up with a plan. Even if our lists were completely opposite, we'd each get to do something we like individually, and we'd promise to have an open mind and good attitude about the other activities.

Philip, always wanting to please me, was skeptical. "I don't want to make a big list of things you don't want to do," he said. But ultimately, he played along, and here are our lists.

Erika:
- Rock Springs Run
- community pool
- Canaveral National Seashore
- massage
- get pizza from the food stand outside Redlight
- boat ride
- sleep in and eat cinnamon rolls
- watch our wedding video and read our vows

Philip:
- float down the springs
- relax with a massage
- head out to Canaveral National Seashore for some sand and sun
- enjoy a cocktail and some conversation @ Ravenous Pig
- check out volunteering @ the SPCA
- share a lunch at Pine 22, Social Chameleon, or Casa de las Empanadas
- nap!
- watch Verlander dominate on Sunday afternoon (translation: watch the Tigers baseball game)
- make like Clive and Juliana and stay the night at the Hard Rock Hotel (If you don't get this reference, you need to start watching Modern Family.)

It was pretty exciting to see how many ideas were the same or similar on our respective lists! Maybe we're not so different after all. Maybe sometimes it takes a little autonomy to uncover how much we really have in common.

We don't have a game plan yet, but whatever we end up doing, I'm pretty stoked for a chill "staycation" weekend in Orlando with my husband!

MUSIC OF THE NIGHT

Two weeks ago, Philip and I headed up to my hometown for a Larson-family visit, an emotional three days during which we spent a great deal of time with parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and so on. We hadn’t been to Rockford since Thanksgiving, so my relatives were eager to bend my ear with their latest news.

Amid the family whirlwind, there was hardly time for Philip and I to talk, let alone have sex. He patiently allowed me to split my attention 15 different ways, but by the last night of our stay, I suspect he was feeling a little neglected. As we were preparing to leave for a community-theater presentation of Phantom of the Opera, in which my sister Sarah was starring as Meg Giry, Philip and I got into an argument about what he should wear, or rather, my lack of interest in what he should wear.

The tension between us was high as the show began. I don’t know if I started during the first song or if I was able to hold out until song two, but I started weeping. Like, really getting hysterical. Phantom is a sad, haunting story with heart-wrenching music to begin with, and seeing my talented sister onstage was quite moving. On top of that, I was bearing the weight of my family’s recently shared burdens — health problems, addictions, loneliness, money stress. And I think I was crying for the general state of my relationship with Philip lately — our bickering, our lack of tenderness and enjoyment of one another. I sobbed straight through until the chandelier crashed at the end of Act I. Philip fed me tissues, and by the curtain call, our tiff before the show was forgiven.

The weekend following our intense Illinois visit, we had blissfully nothing to do. After sleeping in on Saturday, we got a call from Danny and Jodie, the couple who mentored us when we were engaged and who performed our wedding ceremony. In their decades of marriage, they had been through it all — cancer, loss (and recovery) of faith, business scandals, and the ups and downs of raising three kids, the youngest of whom was an underdeveloped toddler from El Salvador whom Jodie adopted 20-some years ago without first consulting Dan! We hadn’t seen them in months, and they were inviting us to lunch.

We caught up over burrito bowls and guacamole, and being around them seemed to unearth some long-latent loving feeling between Philip and me. It was like we were transported emotionally to the time prior to our wedding, long before mortgages, jet-setting jobs and fertility charts. And Dan and Jodie were truly delighting in us — not in me or Philip individually, but in us as a couple: our stories, our style of relating, how we teased one another. They saw something we’ve been calling into question lately — that we are good together — and Philip and I responded to each other likewise.

It was also beneficial to hear their latest tales — how they went to Hawaii on a luxury vacation and didn’t get along the entire time. As they laughed about it later, it was clear to me that Philip and I have a long time to wax and wane. I was encouraged to see that other couples, even ones who have been married for decades, still have unexpected meltdowns (even in paradise) and then deal and heal.

The lunch opened the door for a truly lovely weekend for Philip and me. We both sacrificed some priorities in order to spend time together, running errands, dining out and going to the movies. Instead of feeling edgy and irritated, we were relaxed and affectionate, and that opened the door for some fun, stress-free, passionate sex that had nothing to do with anything but enjoying each other.

I’m still charting and trying to understand my fertility signs, but I have officially sworn off pushing sex when we’re just not there emotionally. And I’ve sworn off all the little recommendations I’ve read (e.g., don’t use lubricant; don’t have oral sex; missionary position is best; lay there for 30 minutes afterward …), as while they’re well-intentioned for couples trying to conceive, they were only making sex more weird and awkward (and didn’t seem to help last month anyway).

Overall, I’m feeling tons more peace and am very thankful for caring mentors and plans-free weekends at home.

AT LEAST WE KNOW

This past weekend, we got our answer, and it wasn’t what we wanted. I had a good cry in Philip’s arms (he was so very tender and comforting), felt better, then had another breakdown later in the day.

Later, reflecting on how upset I got, I came to two conclusions. 1. I must actually really want a baby, or else I wouldn’t have had such a guttural reaction of disappointment when that wasn’t the outcome. 2. I cannot continue to get this upset every month or I will give my self an aneurism.

It is a relief to have an answer and know how to feel. For about 10 days I thought I could ovulate at any moment, and then for 14 I had to wonder if we had succeeded — the longest two weeks of my life, it felt. I vacillated manically between wild hope/excitement and preparing myself for the worst. Not knowing is crazy-making, so now I feel like a normal person again. I am not pregnant; that makes me sad; okay, back to everyday life; time to try again.

I’ve also been trying to delight in the simple pleasures in which I’m allowed to indulge as a non-pregnant woman: wine, caffeine, soft cheese. This weekend at my parents’ house, I can soak in their hot tub, and I can jog around the neighborhood without fretting that I’m going to overdo it and overheat myself. Of course, I had to mourn the loss of my fantasy of announcing to my loved ones this weekend that the family was about to expand, but at least when we visit New Glarus Brewing Co. tomorrow, I can freely sample all their fruit beers.

EVERYBODY LOVES BABIES

Over the weekend I finally watched the film Babies, directed by Thomas Balmes. My friend Amy M., who knows way more about babies than I do and is actually having one in a few days (at home!), sent me the trailer a year ago with great excitement, and I finally found the time to watch the documentary — instantly no less — on Netflix. (I also watched Hot Tub Time Machine, but that is neither here nor there.)

Babies follows the birth and roughly first-year development of four little ones in vastly differing cultures: San Francisco, Mongolia, Tokyo and Namibia. There’s no dialogue, but the way the footage is edited together is artful and compelling.

Some of my favorite scenes included:

- The scene in which the Mongolian baby is sitting on the bed petting the cat (and by “petting” I mean grabbing and violently stroking), and the cat doesn’t flee; it just takes it. The cat might even be enjoying it. I can only hope our two kitties are as accepting of a grab-happy baby one day.

- The scene in which the San Francisco baby is with her parents at some kind of hippie baby class. The adults are chanting, “The earth is our mother,” and the baby stands up and makes a waddling beeline for the door, like, “Get me out of here!”

- The suggestive scene in which the Japanese baby is trying to fit a wooden toy stick into a hole in a round disc. She grows so frustrated at her inability to line up the stick and the hole that she flings her body onto the floor and cries.

Overall, the scenes of the Western family, with their mountain of gear, passive parenting style and baby-yoga classes, left me cold. And I was extremely encouraged by the scenes of the Mongolian and African babies — crawling in the dirt amid the livestock, being washed by spit and breast milk, and being entertained by millstones and tin cans. Not that I intend to do any of that stuff with our future children, but I found it reassuring that people raise kids just fine in humble circumstances; they can figure out how to care for an infant even without running water, diapers and high chairs. It made me feel like, if these women can successfully wrangle their newborns in these rustic environments, I’ll do just fine with a bit of help from modern invention.

IT MIGHT BE INSTAMATIC FLU

So after our glorious weekend in Colorado, it should come as no surprise that the following week was a mess. I came down with a cold but attempted to go to work anyway; my boss took one look at me and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look awful. Go home; I don’t want you getting the rest of us sick.”

Despite my restful day at home however, I couldn’t quite kick the bug all week. This experience solidified for both Philip and me that we HATE it when I’m sick. Why? For starters, Philip already tends to do more than his fair share around the house. He is a high-energy, task-driven person with a low tolerance for filth and disorder, who also gives (and receives) love primarily through acts of service. So when I fall ill, the burden of household chores shifts even more unfavorably to him, while he is all the while not feeling loved by me because I’m unable to serve him in even small ways.

Secondly, while Philip is amazing at showing love through acts of service, he isn’t the strongest at showing love how I want to receive it — through cuddling and hair stroking and gentle reassurances like, “It’s okay, honey; you’ll feel better soon.”

Lastly, I am very bad at being sick. I tend to push myself to live as if I weren’t sick, overdo it and only prolong my illness. This is partially due to the fact that I want to serve Philip to show him he is loved and partially due to my impatience and bad judgment. My irresponsibility drives Philip bananas and makes him even less likely to be all touchy-feely … It’s a vicious cycle.

So we bickered all through my illness, and oh by the way, I was pretty sure I was going to ovulate last week, so I was forcing him to have relations with me despite jetlag; despite my stuffed-up nose, weak body and general pitifulness; and despite our grumbly demeanors toward one another.

All my life I feel like the message I’ve been told is that getting pregnant is practically a given when you have unprotected sex, and one must do everything necessary to prevent pregnancy, up to and including things like ingesting dubious artificial hormones every day of your life, wrapping body parts in plastic and abstaining from intercourse altogether. But between life and stress and travel and sickness and fights and pressure and commitments and exhaustion, it’s a wonder the human race continues to propagate. Philip and I find ourselves with dilemmas like, Is it more important for Philip to go lead a small group full of people praying for our fertility, or to ditch study and leave our friends in the lurch in order to have sex with his ailing wife who thinks she may be ovulating?

So moral of the story is, last week was pretty much a disaster, and after two times of forcing my husband to copulate against his will, I let go of my conception hysteria. I’m sick. We’re fighting nonstop. We can’t be further from “in the mood.” I can’t make heads or tails of my fertility signs anyway, so I will lay this down.

Finally, over the weekend, we had what I consider to be a breakthrough conversation about this whole weird, overwhelming, tricky endeavor of trying to conceive. We’re just starting, and already I’m feeling obsessive and anxious and he’s feeling pressured and used. We talked about our fears. We talked about our childhoods. We talked about why people choose to have kids, good motives and bad. We talked about other huge life transitions through which we struggled. We talked about biological clocks. Etc.

The talk was very open and revealing, and when it was over, while I didn’t feel like we had really solved anything or come up with a concrete list of action items, I did feel massively relieved that I understood my husband better and that we could attribute a large chunk of this squabbling about dumb stuff like egg sandwiches to this underlying stress of attempting to conceive.

SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS

Last weekend Philip and I took a break from real life (and from fighting) to go on a press trip to The Westin Riverfront Resort & Spa at Beaver Creek Mountain in Avon, Colorado, near Vail. Unlike pretty much all of my work trips thus far, the itinerary was wide open, giving us freedom to do as we pleased. (I am a big fan of this approach, as it allowed us to experience the resort more like a typical tourist would, and I’m sure it was cheaper for the resort as well.)

On our arrival on Thursday afternoon, we decided to go for a jog on the bike path that runs along the Eagle River from Avon to Edwards and beyond. It was hella tough (Avon sits at 7,430 feet above sea level, while Orlando is at a lowly 106). But on frequent walking breaks, I could really soak in our surroundings—snow-capped mountains, soft green grass, a cloudless sky, a surging brown river and humidity-free air.

That night at one of two planned press activities, we met the wife of a local man who works for the American Craft Brewers Association, and she promised Philip she would raid her husband’s bounteous stash and bring him some bottles. True to her word, Friday morning began with the delivery of seven craft brews to our hotel room, prompting Philip to declare it the perfect “man morning” (waking up in the mountains and being hand-delivered free good beer) and correctly prophesy that it was about to be the greatest day ever.

We breakfasted on organic goodies at Avon Bakery & Deli, whose crew expertly prepared us a packed lunch for our upcoming hike as well. Then we were ready to make our way to the Buck Creek Trail, which gains 2,000 feet in 3.5 miles. (I was of course outfitted in my super-stylish outdoor wear—clunky boots, zip-off pants, sports shades and hiking poles; please contain your jealousy.)

The hike was life-giving, the path never straying far from gurgling Buck Creek. We passed rocky waterfalls and blooming alpine fields and almost imperceptible streams where tiny lavender butterflies quivered on glossy logs. My hips started to ache as we climbed, but each new height brought another rewarding vista—a backward view of the valley far below, a grove of blinding birch trees, and finally, snow concealing our trail. Snow!

We ate our packed lunch overlooking a sprawling green meadow lined with snow banks, and I said, “You know, if we’re serious about raising our [unconceived] kids in an environment like this, we have to move.”

When we made it back to our hotel room some eight-plus miles later, I was happier and sorer than I’ve been in a long time. We ordered a pizza, flipped on our gas fireplace and felt thankful.

Day two wasn’t quite as glorious as day one, but it was never-the-less a super-sweet day—a massage at the spa, followed by a five-mile bike ride to Edwards for a lunch of nachos and buffalo-chicken salad at the Gore Range Brewery. That night we also made sure to take advantage of the hotel’s hot tubs and fire pits.

Now, I had secretly hoped to conceive while we were in Colorado, but alas, I didn’t ovulate while we were there. But my friend Amy A. had challenged me a couple of months ago to not grow discontent if conception didn’t happen on my timetable. She asked me, “Are the blessings you have right now enough?” After a perfect weekend like the one Philip and I just shared in the Rockies, the answer’s obvious.

GOD MAKES A FUNNY

To prove once again that He has a sense of humor, God had it all worked out that less than 24 hours after our explosive argument, Philip and I were on deck to host small group at our house, a task that requires teamwork, preparation and open communication. We managed to pull our mess together, both conceding some wrong and carrying out small acts of penance just before go time.

Everyone showed up promptly at 7 p.m. to find snacks on the table and a pleasant Team Hueneke ready to discuss our upcoming study plan for the summer. We even moved into a time for sharing prayer requests toward the end and politely let everyone else go first. When it finally got to our turn, we couldn't avoid it any longer; we had to come clean. We looked at each other guiltily, reluctantly, and with a half-smirk.

Aaaand of course, everyone took one gander at that look and exclaimed, "OhmyGod you're pregnant!"

Ha. Not quite. I couldn't answer fast enough -- "NO! Pretty much the opposite!"

We all had a good laugh, and it certainly broke the tension. And ultimately, it was a good thing to have to confess our quarrel (despite how awkward everyone around us looked and no doubt felt as we struggled to articulate what had happened without incriminating each other).

So we're one step closer to reconciliation, and I have also learned a valuable lesson -- that I do have the right to remain silent, but doing so can be (unintentionally) used against me when my audience is on hyper pregnancy alert.

LOVE & WAR

Philip and I sparred all day today. Two fights, maybe three. I can't really remember. I felt depressed and listless all day; maybe that was the problem. Parts of our conflict are comical in hindsight, like an argument over what shelf to put things on in the refrigerator or whether or not it's prissy to refuse to eat a banana after the peel is covered in black spots. I'm often completely caught off-guard by how issues such as these escalate into full-blown assaults -- how quickly I go from feeling a little defensive and cross to telling Philip that there is an @$$hole deep down in his heart.

We laughed about the above ridiculous insult later, but it still stung when I said it, and the sentiment behind it doesn't just evaporate the second we say we're sorry. Also, we never really resolved our morning clash, so I should have known the anger would rear back up unexpectedly, again over something seemingly benign -- whether or not to fold that load of whites, as it was midnight and I was tired and I had a headache. Before I know it, socks and undershirts are scattered all over our bedroom, I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, and the cats have gone into hiding over all the furor.

In our small group right now, we are studying marriage and are reminded over and over again in our study materials that marriage is ultra-difficult. The title of the book we're reading is literally Love & War, and in it, the authors reassure readers that everyone fights, that marriage is hard for every couple. But it's a challenge at times like these not to feel like we are the most dysfunctional, mismatched pair ever to say I do, and that surely when other married couples argue, they can keep a more level tone, not make such a big deal over a load of laundry, and end up sleeping in the same bed.

And of course it's not about the laundry; it's about values and feeling cared for and household roles and insecurity and differing approaches to life and work and on and on. And even if other couples we know aren't so expressive/explosive, these delicate issues touch every marriage. It's hard to feel any solace in that notion tonight, but maybe the issues at hand won't seem so dire in the morning.

WHAT'S NEXT?

So I resurrected the ol' New Aesthetic blog today. It kind of made me feel a bit omnipotent, that I was able to find the long-dead Web log (whose URL we let lapse years ago and is now for sale), give it a new URL, rename it and even update the html for the Friends box. These are not major feats for more technologically adept people, but for me, it was a great achievement worthy of a hearty self-pat on the back.

I even went back and reread some old posts I wrote and didn't cringe. Now THAT'S something.

So I've been thinking for some time that I need to start writing recreationally again. It brings me joy. And also deep fear about what people think of what I've written. But mostly joy. I used to want to keep a blog about the unique challenges and wonders of newlywed life, but now that Philip and I have been united in holy matrimony for almost six years, I think I have to finally let go of the cute idea that we are still newlyweds.

Nevertheless, marriage at any stage is still ripe soil for storytelling, so I think I will go ahead and explicitly exploit our relationship for the practice of my craft, and also, hopefully, for the enjoyment of my readers (fingers crossed I have some).

Plus, we seem to be at a crossroads, having decided that we are, at long last, ready to start a family. I have to admit, saying it out loud makes me shudder just a smidge, as I've always recoiled when people ask the inevitable question, "So ... when are YOU going to have kids?" After six years of marriage, we're hearing it more often, and I even imagine people are silently asking it in awkward pauses sometimes, i.e., I apologetically explain why we don't have kids yet even when nobody inquired.

Pretty much every couple we know has entered the baby universe. This includes couples who are years younger than us, couples who were married long after us, and even couples who swore they would never procreate. OK, there are a few of you husbands and wives out there who are still among the childless ranks with us, but you are far between.

To be honest, I don't know why it has taken us so long to decide it's time. But to be even more honest, I don't understand how everyone else got to that point so quickly. Frankly, the thought of being a parent scares the $#!+ out of me. I don't even know how to change a diaper, let alone teach a child how to cope with rejection or explain heaven. And the other side of it is pure selfishness -- I enjoy sleeping in and traveling all over the place and generally doing as I please.

But lately (that is, when I turned 30 about 15 months ago), my thinking began to shift. The "someday" of when I wanted to have kids seemed much more imminent. The face I saw in the mirror didn't look like a clueless, helpless 20-something; it was the face of an adult with her feet on the ground and a little know-how about surprisingly a lot. The baby aisles at Target, which had NEVER attracted my attention in the past, suddenly piqued my interest. (One day, while researching ideas online for a baby shower I was throwing, I ended up on a baby-nursery blog and was downright engrossed.) Philip and I have our finances pretty well in order and have checked off some major life-list items, including taking one big dream trip. And I just felt ready for what's next. Four years at my job and in our house, and I'm feeling the itch for another adventure, one with gravity.

And Philip has been moving slowly in this direction too, to my great relief. While we were in Thailand at a resort, we kept passing by the kiddie pool and both felt the twinge: Oh MAN, that pool looked fun!

So on this blog, I shall chronicle our journey toward parenthood, which, Lord willing, will be quick and effortless, but could take some time and turn out to be painful and disappointing (which is another reason I hesitate to even admit we're "trying," but c'est la vie, it's out there now). And of course, I still intend to bore you with one-off tales of my press trips (read: how hotels and tourism bureaus bribe me with over-the-top meals and indulgent spa treatments so I will write nice things about them) and just the regular goings-on of our quasi-suburban life. I hope you'll come along for the ride.