We received my drug protocol the other day and last night we both signed the consents. They’re on their way back to the clinic. It’s getting more real every day. Nervous nervous nervous.

Oh, and my period is late. Okay, not a whole lot late, like weeks, but a little late. We know that a few days doesn’t count, because they just don’t cut it, do they? We know that it’s a trick of nature or of our aging bodies or just plain wishful thinking. There is that little ping of hope that maybe, just maybe, from the good graces of the universe, we can defy all logic, all reality, all past experience, and be able to conceive naturally.

What do you do about hope? Should you hope? Should you give in to the negativity? Should you try to remain neutral? Can you truly be neutral? I’ve rarely been able to distract myself so much that I forget about it entirely. Some people believe in prayer and there have been studies that show people in tough circumstances have managed to survive due to prayer. But this is not a question of survival, it’s a question of how to emotionally approach this time of month and this circumstance. How do you frame your thinking about something that is out of your control?

November 3

Okay, I’m not pregnant. This time I’m half relieved, half wistful. Maybe the husband’s constant pestering is getting to me. He has started asking me The Question. “Did you get your period?” It’s so awful when I have to look into his expectant face and tell him yes. His eyes get sort of sad-looking. I’m not sure how many months I can put up with it.

November 19

Last night we had our annual gala and I wore the sexiest slinky slacks and outrageously high and expensive stilettos. I loved that sexy, powerful look. If I get pregnant, will I ever be able to fit into those pants again? Not that I want to wear those same pants exactly, but shrinking back to the same size would be nice.

I refuse to buy into the crunchy granola aesthetic that says it’s okay for a woman to give up her figure, her beauty, her style, in sacrifice to children. Until recently, prevailing logic had it that child-bearing was a beautiful, natural event and that women should settle into it comfortably and without complaint. Women are doing  a goddess-like service to the human race and should embrace their distended bodies and ensuing flabbiness. Interestingly, popular culture (or the Me Generation?) has refuted that line of thought and brought maternity into the modern age. Instead of celebrating the motherhood part, we’re now celebrating the pregnancy part: fitness and style have graduated. There are exercise classes, new sexy maternity wear, magazines, all for moms-to-be. I don’t care whether this is strictly a money grab on the part of savvy trend observers; I think it’s marvellous.

I decide that if I am going to blow up like a balloon, I’d better be fit enough to deflate quickly. A gym membership seems to be the answer. So after checking out a few gyms, I walk into one on the Upper East Side and plunked down my credit card. It’s a beautiful place that caters to the new trend in lifestyle, with the right music, a spa,and the sleek accoutrements to make a person feel she will be beautiful if she belongs here. As soon as the gorgeous wannabe-actor-but-currently-a-gym-membership-sales-associate finishes with my registration I schedule a consultation with a personal trainer.

The next week I meet with Mimi, as cute as her name. She is adorable and lithe, like a dancer. In fact, I find out that she indeed is a dancer so I pump her for all exercises that can give me those sleek dancer legs. I tell her I don’t just want to tone, I want to get fit for pregnancy. Wow, I’m admitting it in public. Am I on the road to acceptance? “Well, that’s very proactive of you,” she says. Indeed.

November 27

I’m rushing to get back to the office after my noontime Pilates class. Not that there is anything pressing, but there is an office baby shower that I should show up for. I really, really hate office parties, in particular wedding and baby showers. The truth is, no one particularly likes the gifts they get at these parties and co-workers are forced to second-guess what an appropriate gift is. For this particular colleague, I went to one of the French baby stores on Madison — only for their convenience — I explain to the husband, whose eyes widen in disbelief over where I shop for people I hardly call friends. A generic gift in beautiful wrapping from a high-end store is always the way to go in these instances. It makes people feel special and at some point, one can always call on that goodwill.

As I walk into the conference room, our mamma-to-be is being festooned with a ridiculous paper hat with coloured bows, tendrils of curled ribbon hanging over her face. Note to self: take early maternity leave so I don’t have to go through this humiliation.