(**I am Deeda. Cindy is my mother-in-law.)

On Monday night Eric and I sat down and discussed whether or not he would come to NYC with us. After making sure that I wouldn’t be secretly mad if he didn’t go, he pointed out that if the transfer worked this time, I would have the baby this year and he would much rather take time off once bambino was born. Despite my optimism with this cycle, I hadn’t even considered this. Couple that conversation with the fact that when I walked into the living room just prior, he was engrossed in a local health spot on breastfeeding and said, “I’m getting some really great advice for us,” you can see why my heart utterly melted. Yes, I picked the right man to make a baby with.

On this trip I finally figured out why New York makes me feel so unsettled. Let me preface this paragraph by saying something: I am in love with New York. I think it’s sexy, glamorous and impossibly cool. I only wish that I was worthy of it. I brag about the year that I worked in midtown Manhattan like it meant something, even though if I strolled through that company today not one person would recognize my face (and with their turnover rate, I probably wouldn’t recognize most of theirs. Thankfully). Anyway. I figured out the two words that best sum up my New York experience: sensory overload. I don’t mean the lights and the noise and the people; I mean the action. I am the type of person who always wants to be part of what’s going on. I think it’s probably one of my most annoying qualities (friends – correct me if I’m wrong). I am known to whine at my sisters-in-law for going to Target or trivia nights or anywhere without inviting me, even when I’m more likely to say no than yes. The other night my two friends mentioned going to a bar together recently. I blurted out, “Oh, was it that night I couldn’t come? Or some other time? Did you guys just plan your own thing, then?” like some jealous psycho girlfriend. In this post I mentioned reading “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns),” a hilarious book that I would have loved for the title alone. That could have easily been my own memoir’s title. (Current working titles: “Have Progesterone, Will Travel,” “I Should Have Been a Fertile: Why I was Robbed of My One True Destiny,” and “Infertility, Student Loan Debt, and a Useless Liberal Arts Degree: How to Overcome Adversity and Win at Life!”)

New York City makes me feel like I’m being left out. There are so many restaurants, bars and stores that I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something (which I definitely am, but how can anyone avoid that?) So I walk around and instead of enjoying myself, I just peek in windows thinking, “Is that place cool? Is this place happening? Are those people having a great time? Oh gosh, look at that brownstone. What if I lived there? How amazing would my life be? I bet I’d have a chaise lounge.” I cannot keep a handle on my excited thoughts and wind up not enjoying anything. New York is like my way-too-cool-for anyone, inaccessible and intoxicating lover. It gives me just enough to keep me coming back but never keeps me satisfied.

That said – we had such a fabulous time. We ate at Bangkok House the first night and got a prix fixe meal including soup, an appetizer, a salad, an entree and dessert for $16.95 per person. And it was phenomenal. Leave it to my mother-in-law to find an incredible discount, even in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

For breakfast the next morning we went to Le Pain Quotidien, a delightful French bakery within sight of Central Park. It’s the kind of place where you’ll always find Europeans, particularly French people engrossed in lyrical conversation, which I believe is a very good mark of authenticity.

Right, so we didn’t go to New York just to eat. We were there for this greater purpose that had my phone blowing up with texts and my Facebook blowing up with love. As if I wasn’t overwhelmed enough! I felt like a hero headed off to war (or how I imagine one might feel). My brain told me not to be nervous, but the night before I suffered some serious insomnia. I got up at 2 a.m. and stared out to the city streets forlornly, feeling like I was auditioning for a Lifetime movie. I should expand my vocabulary here, but really “overwhelmed” is the best I can come up with. It was finally happening.

My appointment was at 11 a.m. They called me back to the procedure area about 15 minutes prior, I got all capped and gowned, and then I had to wait in that waiting area. And wait. And wait. Thank goodness I had the foresight to keep my iPhone handy, because I ended up waiting for 45 friggin minutes. I did talk to a very nice woman who was there for her second transfer, her first being two years ago and successful the first time. AND she only transferred one. She also confided that Martha Stewart’s daughter goes to the same doctor as ours and that he specializes in tough cases. Overall, she calmed me down immensely.

The procedure itself was underwhelming. They did not let me watch the screen or record it. No one made a big deal about it. The whole thing felt just like a gynecological exam; uncomfortable but not painful. I watched the clock for lack of something better to look at and I can say with confidence that I “got pregnant” at 11:45 a.m. on Thursday, February 28th. Of course I was terrified to stand up afterwards, like they were going to fall out (which they assured me was not going to happen). Wanna hear something funny? The doctor kept saying “Just relax” the whole time I was laying there (possibly the only two words of English that he knows). Like, I literally had to just relax so I could get pregnant. Irony, right?

Afterwards we headed down to Union Square because I had my heart set on checking out Forever 21’s maternity line, which is only offered at certain locations. Or was offered, I should say. Apparently the line was discontinued last summer and according to the flippant and annoyed sales girl, it “didn’t sell.” It’s probably for the best. In case anyone was keeping score, I have yet to buy one piece of maternity clothing. Maybe I should wait for the beta. Yeah.

My MIL had looked up a couple of places to visit, including an eatery called The Redhead that sells homemade bacon peanut brittle (yup, that exists). We walked to it from Union Square, which was no small feat. I tried desperately to slow down my normal speed walker pace. We walked and walked and walked… only to find the place closed until dinnertime. Ugh. We splurged and took a cab back and ate at Gazala’s Place, as seen on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Again, inexpensive and delicious.

By nightfall we were exhausted and decided to forgo our plans of seeing a comedy show. We did make a stop at Magnolia Bakery before coming back to the room, so we spent the evening vegging out and working ourselves into a sugar coma. Pretty sure I fell asleep at 9 p.m.

So that’s it – I’m home and happy to be back. I’ve been trying to figure out if I feel different… so far, no. Just calmer. I have that sense of peace that comes from finishing a job interview or turning in a final exam. I have literally done everything that I can do. Now it’s out of my hands… and into my uterus. My first beta is on Thursday, which means I have to skip a ski trip to Massachusetts with my family next weekend since the second could potentially be on Saturday (God-willing).

And now… we wait.