30. That’s how many periods have passed. That’s how many months have gone by. That’s how many times I let my hopes get too high. When is enough enough? Why can’t I just be happy for expecting moms instead of trying to figure out why the world thinks they deserve it more? Why can’t I just keep a smile and keep on moving? Why does every time feel like the first time? When will I come to terms with the fact that being a mom just isn’t in my cards? Why does it seem so much easier for my husband, when I spend so many nights screaming on my bathroom floor because I can’t get my body to do the ONE thing it was created for. “Don’t get discouraged” he said. “Don’t let this one time beat you.” “I’m not.” I replied. “I’m letting the last 30 beat me.”