The Pregnancy Blues, p.1
I wanted to be pregnant. I'd waited past my 20s and early 30s, waited while I wrote books and carved out my career, and now, at last, I was ready. It was spring. I was 34. The crocuses were pushing their red and yellow skulls up through the last rind of snow, there were pussy willows budding on branches and trees putting on green sleeves, and I was set to go. I bought an ovulation predictor kit. Then I watched, day in, day out, for the sky-blue line to appear, indicating that right this minute, in the warm vault of my body, a ripened egg was dangling. And when the kit turned, when the blue line appeared, I went to my husband and said, "Now."
It was spring. The cats were caterwauling at night, the bees were coming back, and black ants speckled the front steps of our house. I was sure, absolutely sure, I was pregnant. After all, I'd had sex without protection, the egg was ready, the sperm were strong, and it was spring, it was spring, it was spring. Then the blood came. This happened for four months, and with each passing period my desire grew in intensity so that by the time I did conceive I was ecstatic. Completely ecstatic.
I never thought things could go so wrong.