Despite the fact that this morning, after another sleepless night, I put a box on my head to entertain the baby–and wanted to leave it there–we want another one. 

It’s probably just as tacky to admit that we’re “trying” as it is to ask someone. (Trying: my favorite euphemism for ‘how often and what kind of protection?’ Clearly, these things make me uncomfortable. Why does everyone seem to think it’s okay to talk like this?)

But tacky or not, it’s what’s on my mind. Sophocles says that no one likes the bringer of the bad news.  Seriously.

Especially when you’re “trying.” Because then, instead of a gentle answer, instead of a friend showing up with flowers to give you the bad news, instead of a nice card coming in the mail to say the universe is very sorry but not this month and hang in there, you find out you’re fruitless when you get a headache. And then your lower back hurts. Cue volatile emotions, cramps, fatigue. Run to the corner store to buy the tampons you delusionally convinced yourself you wouldn’t need for at least another year.

It’s hardly a gentle, “I have some bad news.” It’s more like a snide chuckle and an “in your face.”

More like your arch nemesis looking down at you and sneering: Nice Try.

Of course, when my husband gets the bad news, it all goes down a bit differently. “Well,” he half smiles. “We’ll just have to try harder.”