By Kimberly Zapata
2017 has been a weird year. A strange year. An “I’m not so sure about this year” sorta year. Of course, nothing bad has happened to me. At least not personally. Not directly. And if I’m being honest, the first four months of this 2017 have actually been good. I have been fortunate enough to make some new friends and visit new places. I got a new job, and I won a writing award.
My industry’s equivalent of the Oscars. (Well, sort of.)
But I haven’t been able to celebrate my achievements or my successes. I haven’t been able to enjoy the positive things or the “good things,” and I haven’t been able to appreciate the little things. Not completely anyway. Because the thing which I am focused on — the one thing my mind has been fixated on — is the one thing which hasn’t happened yet.
I cannot stop thinking about the baby I am trying — and failing — to conceive.
You see, my husband and I began trying for a second child last summer. Make no mistake: We weren’t doing much. We were having sex — a lot of spontaneous, unprotected sex — but we weren’t using calendars or calculators. I wasn’t charting my cervical mucus or checking my basal body temperature, and I hadn’t (yet) purchased an ovulation predictor kit. But I had no reason to. Our first — and only — child took six weeks to conceive.