Last Friday was my first visit ever to an acupuncturist. I did say that I was up for anything in order to have a baby, so there I was in the spare, tiny office feeling a little nervous about having lots of needles shoved into my flesh.

"Do I put off trying to conceive for three months and stay drug-free, or just go balls to the wall and do whatever my Western doctor tells me to do?"

Earlier this year I went to an osteopath. She stuck her fingers in my mouth and manipulated the bones and muscles in my face to help ease the headaches and general ickiness caused by my allergies, and it totally worked, even after some of my initial skepticism. But why am I so weirded out about acupuncture? I've become accustomed to the prick of a needle because of my weekly blood tests to check my hormones, but I still don't look when it goes in. Maybe it's the mental shift from Western medicine to Eastern.

After a one-hour consultation during which we discussed what I want to get out of acupuncture, my general feeling of well-being (apparently I'm "damp"), and the viscosity of my poop, we got started. She put the first needle into my third eye, the area just between my eyebrows. I kept my eyes closed the whole time. Depending on where on my body she was tapping in a needle, I felt either pressure (on my left shin), an itch (on my right foot) or a pinch or prick (everywhere else). Then she left me for 20 minutes to relax and let the needles to do their thing. For the first 10 minutes, I fought the urge to feel for needles, scratch myself, stand up, or roll off the table. For the remaining 10 minutes, I got into just lying there. By the time she had taken out the needles and I had paid, I was so blissed out that I left without taking my checkbook. As anyone who is trying to conceive knows, everyone tells you to relax, which of course is impossible when you're being told to do it, so this was quite a feat.

Besides a feeling of calmness, I left the office with a decision to make. The acupuncturist told me that she could put me on a very pointed regimen of acupuncture and Chinese herbs, but I would then have to stop trying to get pregnant for the three months it would take to flush my body of its "dampness" and get it ready to accept a baby. I could also have acupuncture in conjunction with the treatments that my Western doctor prescribes, but the acupuncture won't be as effective.

Earlier today, my doctor suggested that I take the drug Synthroid to help my thyroid produce healthier eggs. Tomorrow, I see the acupuncturist again. I guess the time to decide is now. Do I put off trying to conceive for three months and stay drug-free, or just go balls to the wall and do whatever my Western doctor tells me to do? It seems to me whenever there are two seemingly opposing camps in the same universe (Biggie Smalls versus Tupac, Cal versus Stanford, Bill Compton versus Eric Northman), devotees are emotional, bad-mouthing is common, and both sides make convincing arguments. But can they coexist together in harmony to provide positive results?

Any thoughts, advice, or ideas from moms out there in Interweb-land?

My doctor's office recently sent me an invoice for $600. The procedures listed were about a month of visits, sonograms, and blood work. The amount kind of freaked me out. Like everyone else these days, we're watching every dollar, and $600 a month before we get into the heavy-duty infertility treatments means we are living beyond our means.

"It's clear to me that need and want are two very different motivations, and that my attempt to overcome my biology in order to conceive is a first-world, middle-class problem. "

We were mentally prepared to shit our pants and max out our credit cards when expenses included breast pumps, babysitters, and preschool, but not before we had a bun in the oven. A phone call to my doctor cleared it all up: The amount was how much my insurance provider was going to cover. I was relieved and singing hallelujahs in praise of Aetna. Then, I thought about how lucky we were to have insurance. My mood darkened when my thoughts turned to couples who want to conceive and need a medical nudge but don't have coverage. Then I got angry when my thoughts jumped to my grandfather, who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer earlier this year. If it weren't for Medicare (signed into law in 44 years ago, when he was my age), either he would be dead or he and his children would be broke. Are those really the only choices?

In the elevator on the way up to my office today, the little video screen that flashes factoids to passengers all day displayed one from a new study done conducted by the Harvard Medical School. It revealed that one American dies every 12 minutes because he or she doesn't have health insurance. Statistically, one could surmise that's one child under 9 years of age every three hours---or the time it takes to catch your prime-time TV shows. The thought is humbling and infuriating. I'm not a policy wonk, by any means, and until I watched our president address Congress earlier this month and read Cookie's interview with an analyst (and a mom) from the Kaiser Family Foundation, I didn't understand all the details of Obama's health-care-reform proposal. It's clear to me that need and want are two very different motivations, and that my attempt to overcome my biology in order to conceive is a first-world, middle-class problem. But I believe that we (meaning me and my child-to-be and/or the mother of my adopted child-to-be) all deserve something more than just a step up from a third-world health care system--and we shouldn't go broke getting it.

How do you think the proposed changes will affect your family?

A friend of mine, a new mom with a renewed appreciation for Raising Arizona, and I have been exchanging e-mails of our favorite lines from the 1987 movie starring Nicholas Cage (when he was still an oily bohunk of a man--post-Valley Girl and pre-hair plugs) as H.I. McDonnough.

"I had come to the conclusion that if this cyst was the reason for my troubles, then the doctor would find it, take the sucker out, and send me home to make some babies."

When I was 14, I thought Holly Hunter's portrayal of policewoman Edwina as H.I.'s hysterical wife was funny but a little over the top, even for a Coen brothers movie. But her fierce determination to have a child (even if they have to kidnap one) and her sudden outbursts of tears (think Broadcast News) don't seem like hyperbole to me anymore.

In one scene, her squad car screeches to a halt in front of the couple's trailer and she exclaims to Cage's character in her southern drawl, "H.I., I'm barren!" Cut to the next scene at the doctor's office with Edwina crying uncontrollably in her husband's arms and the doctor tracing the voyage of sperm and egg with a pencil in a textbook rendering of a uterus. Cue H.I.'s voiceover: "And the doc went on to explain that this woman, who looked as fertile as the Tennessee Valley, could bear no young. Her insides were a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase." For me, it's still one of the movie's most amusing scenes, but her heartbreak is much more palpable now than when I was a teenager.

My doctor, who gave me a similar refresher course on the birds and bees, recently conducted a sonogram and noticed a cyst on one of my ovaries--about the size of a walnut. She told me I should get it checked out by an oncologist. I kept it together for about two seconds and then I completely lost my composure there on the examination table. Naked and crying with my face in my hands, I thought to myself, Only people who have cancer and are going to die see oncologists.

A week later, after I had gotten my head around the news, I sat in the waiting room of the oncologist's office and actually felt excited and hopeful. I had come to the conclusion that if this cyst was the reason for my troubles, then the doctor would find it, take the sucker out, and send me home to make some babies. So when his sonogram revealed that I had no cyst (apparently it's very common to have one and for it to suddenly disappear), I wasn't relieved--I was disappointed.

A little while after I got back to work from my appointment, the nurse from my doctor's office called to tell me that she had more good news. My blood work showed that I had ovulated during my last cycle (my first in a year) and that my testosterone levels were normal. I asked her if she could double check, and she said she already had because she was surprised by the results, too.

Don't get me wrong, I am incredibly grateful that the cyst was not malignant and that my numbers are looking better. I was just hoping for some answers to replace all the dark thoughts. I guess, until then, I'll look to my friends for comfort and to the movies for some levity and even hope.

At the end of Raising Arizona, H.I. has another one of his portentous dreams. His voiceover: "I saw an old couple being visited by their children, and all their grandchildren too. The old couple weren't screwed up. And neither were their kids or their grandkids.... This whole dream, was it wishful thinking? ... It seemed like us, and it seemed like, well, our home. If not Arizona, then a land not too far away. Where all parents are strong and wise and capable and all children are happy and beloved. I don't know. Maybe it was Utah."

For Evan's mom.

In an effort to boost our ability for sperm and egg to meet and go from point A to point B, I put Michael and myelf on a diet, one not unlike any normal, healthy thirtysomething should be on: fewer carbs and less red meat; more fish, leafy greens, and antioxidant-rich foods. We also figured it's good practice for us to be role models for the child we're trying to have.

"In general, we are terrible people with deplorable habits, questionable tastes, and the vocabularies of pubescent girls. Are we even worthy of having a child?"

Then, I got to thinking: late-night snacking on blocks of cheese and a weakness for Manwiches weren't all we had to reassess. The F-bomb (in both expletive and gastrointestinal forms) is like a barrage of machine-gun fire at our house, and snarky remarks aren't limited to the ones we make while watching VH1's Rock of Love or America's Next Top Model. In general, we are terrible people with deplorable habits, questionable tastes, and the vocabularies of pubescent girls. Are we ready or even worthy of having a child? I like to think that Michael brings out a better version of me: more patient, more kind, and more forgiving. I'm hoping that the child we're working on having, and the anticipation of his or her arrival, will bring out the best version of us--whatever that might be.

I was watching America's Best Dance Crew last night on MTV, and there's an amazing group that vogues (the real thing, according to the blogs--not that slick Madonna-ified version). Their frontwoman is transgendered--she was born a man, but opted to become a woman so that her outside appearance would match how she felt inside. 

By all accounts, I appear to be your run-of-the-mill female. However, now that I'm trying to conceive, I've begun to feel like less of one. Until recently (with the help of a prometrium boost), I had gone a year without getting my period. Also, some blood work revealed that I had way too much testosterone. Should I just be thankful that all I have is a hairy chin and not a set of testes? Was my lady junk, indeed, junkie? 

A woman's ability to conceive is obviously not the gold standard that any female (born or created) should hold herself to, and having a child is not the be-all-end-all of womanhood. But being a mother is how I want to express myself and be identified (at least in part). 

My first-ever sonogram a month ago revealed to me that my ovaries had released an egg, and I cried from pure joy at the possibility of becoming a mother and becoming the version of "me" that I want to be at this stage in my life. That egg didn't take, and on a recent off day, I cried because I felt broken and freakish when friends all around me were getting knocked up by accident. I told my fiance Michael this, and he just put his arms around me and said,  "I love you, and we'll love our baby no matter what." At that moment, I had never felt more accepted for who I am, or more complete as a woman.

If 36-year-old me could sit down for a drink with 21-year-old me, I'd tell the younger me to get thee knocked up ... now. I know, I know. Even women over 70 are still having kids.

"I spent my 20s having fun (while trying to not get pregnant) and looking for the one and, lucky me, I found him--albeit 12 years later."

But as I begin my quest for my first pregnancy and am faced with polycystic ovaries here and a mysterious cyst there, the fear of regret begins to creep up on me. 

I spent my 20s having fun (while trying to not get pregnant) and looking for the one and, lucky me, I found him--albeit 12 years later. Should I have worked less and gone out more? Should I have allowed that first boss to match me with every eligible Jewish man she knew? I wanted finding a partner to be natural and organic, the way love should be, right? 

Besides, I wasn't going to let not having a man stop me from what I wanted in life. When I started shelling out mucho dinero for my first wave of friends getting married, I decided to stop the woe-is-me act and register for my birthday (presents were optional, of course, but if you were going to get me something, then at least get me something I wanted). When I turned 30, I wanted to be a homeowner, and didn't want to wait to be half of a dual-income household, so with some help from the 'rents, I bought a junior one-bedroom that was all my own. 

As I got older, I learned that we make our own luck. I got what I wanted (most of the time) because I worked hard to make it happen. Just like love (I met Michael on match.com), this baby isn't going to be a result of wishful thinking. Instead, I'm going to do everything I can, go to every doctor, eat every weird Chinese herb, read every how-to-adopt book until we get a little one of our own. Wish me luck!