It was fitting that I found out I was pregnant at 30 Rock, because that’s where I learned how to operate with zero sleep, and learned that no matter how badly you want something, it might not happen for you when you want it to. Convinced after two miscarriages that my uterus was basically decorative, I had started IVF during season 48 — a fun little process that made me want to murder my husband. I was storing fertility drugs in my office mini fridge, hiding used needles in my office trash can like a drug addict, bloated like a tick, hormones turning me into a werewolf, and what was Andy’s contribution? Jerking off into a cup while scrolling through his phone. “Good luck, honey!” he said to me while handing his sample to the nurse. Then, after all the needles, the hormones, and the money we’d never see again, I got pregnant the old-fashioned way: spousal rape. I’m kidding. It was consensual. (But I love a historically accurate joke!) The IVF had nothing to …