Luteal, Schmuteal

Usually what's "unknown" in life are those big, interstellar, intangible concepts like "MY FUTURE CAREER PATH" or "WHERE I'LL LIVE IN TEN YEARS" or "WHAT'S FOR DINNER?"

There's nothing like trying to conceive, however, to dial it back in an almost creepy, ultra-intensive personal way akin to Dennis Quaid and Martin Short reenacting Innerspace in your reproductive system. Suddenly, every ache, pain, or spike in blood pressure is a sure sign that you're with child. Or not. Or might be in a technical sort of way, but possibly pre-implantation.

Since we started trying for a second baby, I've been walking through each luteal phase (look it up if you find that confusing) in this sort of introspective fog in which I'm constantly comparing how I feel at any given moment to the couple of weeks leading up to March 4, 2007, when I tested positive for pregnancy with Eva. Now, not only is this unreliable-- every pregnancy is different, and there are no guarantees I'll feel the same this time-- it's also a little maddening, since back then I wasn't expecting to conceive our first month of trying, and therefore wasn't paying close attention to how I felt. There were little signs I could pick out in hindsight, but the fact of the matter is, I can't remember exactly what it felt like to be just barely pregnant.

So if you see me walking around, head down, intensely focused on my middle or perhaps starting off into space to determine whether I'm just tired or holyOMFG@#$%*tired, you'll understand why. Just distract me by tap dancing or something. Imitate a munchkin or a billy goat, or yodel Philip Glass (actually, if you can pull that off, I'll give you a dollar). Nothing is as maddening as not knowing what the heck is going on inside your own body, but nothing is as annoying as not being able to look past it.