I had one of these with Jessica but stopped writing in it around week eleven because everything I wrote was so cranky and negative.

I vow to be more cheerful this time. Even if I’m sicker than before.

I don’t need any of the maternity clothes yet, as I’m losing weight, not gaining. I see Dr. Montgomery for my monthly checkup. I’m now eight weeks. He’s satisfied with everything except my weight. “Don’t starve,” he reminds me. “And don’t stop taking your prenatal vitamins.”

School is nearly over for the year, and I sign the kids up for sports camp and summer activities, knowing I’m going to need to keep the kids busy, especially if I’m not going to feel better anytime soon.

Lisa agrees to work full-time through the summer. I shift some projects around, wrapping up one, turning down another, and postponing a third so I can work a little less and sleep a little more.

June’s hot, hotter than normal, and the unusually high heat has me pulling out my Hawaii clothes. I walk around the house in a tiny tank top and beach sarong. I feel silly, but at least I’m cool.

The heat, though, makes me think of Kai. Not that I’ve ever stopped thinking of him. Or wanting to call him. How could I forget him when I’m carrying his child?

Maybe I don’t want to forget him. Maybe I still have this secret fantasy that he’ll come to me and we’ll have that click of chemistry and connection and we’ll find a way to raise the baby together.

We don’t have to get married.

We don’t even have to live in the same house. We could go back and forth, bicoastal of sorts, and the baby could have the best of both worlds. Hawaii sun and Seattle rain. Hawaii cool with Seattle cold. I laugh a little. Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?

Late June, while the kids are at tennis camp, I go to University Village for a quick shopping trip. William and Jessica could both use some new summer clothes, and I head to Kids Gap for shorts and T-shirts.

Jessica’s in a lime green and orange phase, so I grab her some denim skirts and shorts and wild T-shirts, and William gets his standard blue-and-red athletic-type wear. I’m just about to pay when I see the Baby Gap section at the very back of the store. Suddenly I’m there, touching the soft fleece blankets, the adorable denim and khaki overalls in nine to twelve months, the newborn onesies with yellow giraffes and purple elephants.

“May I help you with something?” the perky salesgirl asks me, one hand on her hip, clipboard in the other.