Is the waiting really the hardest part?

I've become that woman. No, not Harriet Miers. The woman who desperately, passionately, painfully needs to be pregnant. I covet other people's babies. I wonder if any little pain in my torso could be a sign. I have discovered that two weeks is, on the whole, a really, really, reaaaaallly long time. Today, I ate four doughnuts.

That said, I don't think I'm pregnant. Because I'd be puking at weird smells by now, right? I mean, that's always how you know on television.

For the longest time -- like, say, childhood -- I assumed I would never want children. Then one day round about 30, I began watching other people's kids with a consumer's eye. It happened to Judybat too, which worked out well when we went out. Instead of checking out other women and comparing likes and dislikes (Judybat's likes: Mia Hamm. Annaray's likes: Women.), we began doing essentially the same thing babies.

"How about that one?"
"Too pale. How about that one?"
"Too squirmy. Hey, what about that round, soft, pink squishy one that appears to have been bathed just moments ago?"
"Purrrrrr-fect."

That said, I managed to hold the freak outs to a minimum when Judybat was trying to get pregnant two years ago. I was, I see now, less-than-sympathetic to the way the calendar suddenly stretches out before you when you could be, might be, maybe, please let me be pregnant.

Do I think about it much? Oh, pretty much constantly. In the middle of the night. First thing in the morning. All day at work. On the ride home. At dinner. In the bath. In bed. Which means that, once again, I could be headed for a very unpleasant emotional fall should this whole thing not work out. Everybody got their fingers crossed? Anybody got any fetus-friendly Xanax for me?