Month four winds up this week. I'm trying not to try and failing miserably.
This month I haven't had a single moment of—"What the heck am I doing trying to get pregnant?"
Still, while shopping together at Walmart last night, Mr. PNU and I had a heart-to-heart about the fact that these attempts are driven by something quite different from what I was experiencing in my last marriage. That was some deep biological baby lust. This action is based on the notion that my husband and I are completely devoted to each other and we want a child of our own. Subscripting my body to nine months of possibly irreparable form bending gestation is how we make that happen. Again, I think we're okay if it doesn't happen. It's just that this month I actually wanted something to catch hold without any reservation.
I'm writing a mess of non-fiction in the interim.