My husband and I are really lucky to live in a two bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side, one block away from Central Park. Sort of ideal for having a family wouldn't you say? I sure would. That second bedroom though, something most people in New York City would kill to have, is like a noose around my neck. I simultaneously feel anger and disgust every time I walk by it. Who knew that a bedroom would stir such aggressive emotion? But for me it is emblematic of the sad fact that I am still in the same place I was four years ago. Sometimes I walk into the room and scowl at the desk that is residing where our changing table is supposed to be. I stare at the empty wall where the crib is to sit. The blueprint of our nursery has been in my mind's eye after so many fits and starts, that walking into this dumping ground of a second bedroom makes me want to take a sledgehammer to everything in it. I wholeheartedly resent the extra crap that is sitting there, as if all of the inanimate objects are some how mocking me. Every time I find out I am pregnant my husband and I stare at the room and say, "Well if this one doesn't work out maybe we will just turn this into a drug den!" Humor really does lighten the mood wouldn't you say? Last month Kira wrote that using baby wipes is one of her daily reminders. What about all of you? Do you guys have an equivalent? Inquiring minds want to know!