INTENT

Chapter One

Layne

I hold my breath as I pull out yet another ovulation predictor stick. I've wanted a baby for as long as I can remember and we've been trying for longer than I care to admit. Why do women feel less than "womanly" when we have problems conceiving? It's something that should be innate and ingrained in us from birth. We're expected to meet the statistical average of having a husband, two-point-five kids, and a white picket fence that surrounds our picture-perfect lawn.

I'm actually missing all three of those.

I'm not married. My boyfriend Bobby and I have been together, on and off, for seven years...since I was twenty years old. He thinks marriage is an antiquated institution that unnecessarily puts demands on couples and sets them up for complete failure. My stance is the exact opposite of his. Marriage is a time-honored commitment that demonstrates the deep love and respect a man and woman have for each other. That piece of paper may be a government thing, but what it represents is a lifelong promise no one can take away.

I'm losing this fight, obviously.

The two and a half kids? I'd settle for one baby right now. For the past two years, I've been off all birth control while I hope and pray for a positive pregnancy test every month. Twenty-four months of begging for my period to just not show up. A few times, I've been late and so ecstatic that I rushed right out to the drugstore to get a test. Every time, it's been negative. That single dash mark on the test strip has single-handedly dashed my hopes and dreams too often.

Initially, it took a lot of convincing, but I finally wore Bobby down enough that he agreed to have a baby if I agreed not to bring up marriage again. I thought it was a good exchange, but I still secretly hope he will propose when he learns that I'm carrying his baby. Hence, yet another reason why I'm desperately trying to get pregnant every month.

Breath held, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I unwrap the stick and take my seat on the queen's throne, letting the wine flow freely. Fine—this is just my way of glamorizing the process. I'm sitting on the toilet, holding a plastic stick between my legs, and pissing all over it. Now, doesn't my original story sound much better?

"Well, what have you got for me this fine March day?" I ask the plastic fortune-teller. "Am I close to ovulating? Will it be today, tomorrow, next week? Never?"

I'm aware that talking to inanimate objects in my bathroom isn't a good sign. Just don't act like I'm the only one who does it.

Pushing the plastic stick into the monitor, the screen lights up with the results I want to see. "Oh my God! I'm at my peak fertility time!" I squeal loudly and jump up and down.

My irregular periods have made it almost impossible to predict when to use these predictors. They're also not cheap and I really hate wasting them. It's not that I can't afford them, or a baby, but I've always been careful with how I spend money. When I finally do get pregnant, I plan to take the first three years off work and stay home with my baby. I've managed to save enough of my salary, plus some, to be able to afford to do just that.