Wake me up in two weeks…

My veins are completely non compliant. Which is not helpful when you have a nurse trying to insert a cannula the size of a slurpie straw into your somewhat grey and dull looking inner elbow. Did I mention I fucking hate needles?

My lovely Nurse, who recognises me from the somewhat unfortunate fact I’ve become a regular at her hospital, beams a big smile at me. ‘You’re back,’ she says. ‘I thought you weren’t going to do anymore,’ we catch up here so often we’re on a first name basis – except we don’t know each others actual names. Love and darl will do fine. 

I tell her I’ve been blessed with some donor eggs from an incredibly generous friend and am hopeful of a transfer this afternoon. ‘Oh how fantastic,’ she says. ‘Well this will be the last time we see you then,’. I smile and blink away tears, they come far too easily these days. Emotions on hiked up overload. Fucken hormones. 

Patients with eye patches start filling up the recovery room. No other ladies with failing ovaries to share my battlefield story with today. I may be forced to become a Days of our Lives devotee instead. 

After taking my blood pressure, the Nurse tries to stick me with the cannula but my veins say no. ‘Shit, sorry love, I know that hurts. Damn I can’t get it to feed back through, sorry we’ll have to get the doctor.’ I wince and look away. Fuck I hate needles. Oh the pain, it’s real alright. She tries to distract me with tales of our homeland. ‘I’m off back for Easter,’ she tells me, if her visit to a spot where my family has a place. ‘Can’t beat those beautiful Kiwi beaches,’ she adds, small-talking through the pain. No you can’t but my arm’s now bleeding like a fucking bastard. 

She pulls out the unsuccessful giant sized cannula and my toes curl up inside my shoes. Shit it’s hot in here I tell her. And not because I’m feeling a bit of Nelly inspiration, I expect the ridiculous amount of hormones being orally ingested into my system over the past month contribute to the claminess. I choke back the urge to empty my guts all over her pink crocs and the lino floor. She goes to find the doctor, see if he can do a better job. 

Between surgeries, Dr Babies comes to the rescue and has another shot, by which point my veins are meeting to decide if they’ll completely disband from my body altogether. He digs around a little and finally gets a feed through. Stupid ass veins. 

The Nurse hooks up the intralipid fluid and so begins the start of a day that, for the past two weeks, I’ve been both dreading and anxiously awaiting. 

As the gooey white substance begins its crawl into my body at the rate of 10mls per minute, upstairs there’s a teeny little Hugo or Evie being taken out of the freezer getting prepared for this afternoon’s transfer. I don’t know if it’ll defrost. I don’t know if it’ll take. I don’t know what the days and weeks will hold for us, us three, my beautiful family…I don’t know if my uterus will hold this tiny miracle, if my body can do what it’s meant to…all I know is fear. 

I want to skip this bit altogether. Go straight to the end of my two week wait. Sleep for a fortnight and then get up and know it’s all worked. Our dreams have come true. If only it were that easy…but fuck it all to hell, infertility is anything but…lov n’hugs from a hopelessly hopeful Lady MamaG xox

It’s time we stopped mummy bashing…

I was once told by a former friend who for the purpose of this post we’ll name Mrs Nasty, I was a bad mum because I took my six-month-old shopping on a somewhat regular basis. Call child services on me if you must. The same woman would also berate almost everything I did as a new mum. She’d pick on what I fed him – which for a large part of his toddler years consisted of lamb cutlets, potato pom poms and peas – it was quite literally all he would eat. She told me I must enrol him in some idiotic form of baby gymnastics that involved me crawling around like some fuckstick on a rubber floor mat (sorry to those who love this shit, but it just wasn’t for me) and god forbid I let him watch anything on a screen that wasn’t labelled Baby Mozart.

dodoowedding 011

This toddler survived his many shopping jaunts with his mother, unscathed…

This wasn’t helpful. It’s hard enough when you’re a new mum and unsure if you’ve got this gig sussed let alone when someone tells you you’re not doing it right. Unless you are abusing your child, those words are not necessary. I’m not quite certain if Mother Theresa herself named this woman the patron saint of motherhood, or she just assumed the role of her own volition but it never left me. Unlike Mrs Patron Saint (or is that Patronising Saint) of mums, we didn’t have any family living here so my options of shopping alone were not a luxury afforded to me on a regular basis, which meant abusively as it may have been, he was packed up in the stroller and wheeled around the shops charming every assistant who encountered the little blonde nugget of cuteness most weeks. I was merely teaching him young that charm will get you anywhere…

Which brings me to my entire point of this conversation. Whose right is it to tell a parent, and especially a mother – as we seem to be the only ones galloping on our high horses and stabbing each other with lances any time one of our own slips from the highly established ‘perfect standards’ of motherhood – if she is doing the best thing for her kid or not?

I do not give one fuck if you think my kid’s lunchbox is not packed healthily enough because it contains chips or donuts or chocolate. I don’t care either, if you think my baby should sleep in its bed for every single nap time. He turned out pretty damn good so far, and in fact is the heaviest sleeper ever known to humankind, would sleep so long, I’d have to wake him. There isn’t a mum in the world who doesn’t, at some time doubt if she’s getting it right and you high almighties flinging your mud ain’t going to help that one iota.

I’m fairly certain the same Mummy Nazi think sending a five-year-old across the Tasman, alone if you could even believe it, doesn’t fit their mould of ‘perfection’ either. The same high Priestesses who only ever feed their kids dehydrated kale crisps as a treat and sing lullabies in fourteen different languages, while simultaneously flicking alphabet flash cards into their tiny subconscious minds as they sleep would never do such a thing. It’s not your business what I do with my child, so long as they are healthy, well-rounded tiny people with good hearts and kind natures that’s all that matters to me and all that should matter to anyone else.

Intimidating other mums on what you think they should do with their kids, unless it’s risking their lives, really shouldn’t be a competitive sport. But it is. Last week, Aussie model Rachael Finch copped a bagging on social media because holy fuck if you can beleive it, she takes her toddler to her mum’s every now and then for a weekend so Rach and her hubby get a bit of of alone time together. What’s wrong with wanting to keep her marriage healthy? What’s wrong with her daughter spending time with her grandparents? And most of all whose fucking business is it what she does? The Insta Mummy Nazi thought it was time to teach the gorgeous model a thing or two about responsible parenting, they reckoned. She was clearly abandoning her role as a mum. She must be a martyr, they demanded and spend every living second with her toddler watching her every move in awe. No. Actually not your business. Piss off to your perfect pigeon hole and let her do her own mothering. And while you’re at it, shut your damn traps.

Same thing happened to Carrie Bickmore who recently revealed she sends her kid to school on his own. He’s nine and he walks to school. I’m pretty sure after my second day of school, I walked or biked – and sometimes through puddles of actual ice – on my own every day after that. I was five. Sometimes it was even dark. There were no mobile phones to check in with mum. Lord knows how it happened but I survived. It was enough to send the High Priestesses of Motherhood Perfection into high alert and they viciously  spat their venom at Carrie that under no circumstance should this occur and how could she not even call the school to check if he arrived. What’s that noise you hear…? Helicopter blades overhead. Yes, I believe so. The world is no more dangerous now than it was in the ’80s. We are just more afraid. And it’s wanker keyboard warriors who make us that way.

No one is more judgemental on other mums than mums themselves. We shouldn’t be. We really mustn’t. Who needs to subscribe to ‘raising the perfect child’ with books, eseminars and entire facebook groups devoted to attempting to make our kids robotic stepford versions of kids. Is it my business or yours that some mums find a bit of freedom hidden in a glass of much-earned Chardy at the end of an evening when she finally gets her berren under control? Is it up to us to say what another woman lets her kid eat, what time they put their toddler to sleep or if her abs are visible or not six weeks post-partum? I for one could not find my abs for a good nine to 12 months after the day my son came into our world, and I was quite happy about it. But if another mum’s goal is to rinse the washing on her lower abdomen so fucking be it.

The best thing one of my friends ever told me was, ‘if it works for your baby, that’s the best way.’ I still to this day, ask her for advice. And she gives bloody good stuff back.

There are mothers out there doing the best they flaming well can, on a daily basis. Sometimes they are only just coping. Days can stretch out longer than months. Fear mongering only makes us doubt ourselves. In a time when post-natal depression has never been more prevalent, come on give a girl a break, let’s learn to support and love each other. Mums all around, it’s time to stop bashing each other and unite. In all our forms.We have good days and bad. We make good decisions and sometimes not such good ones. But they’re ones we’ve chosen for ourselves and our small people. Respect that. Don’t judge it and above all, be kind to your fellow mamasistas’s… Lov n’hugs always, Lady MamaG xox

Sista’s forever bound by generosity…

These past few weeks didn’t quite go how I’d hoped. In what should have been a lil Hugo or Evie embie transfer yesterday, turns out will now be stretched out a further fortnight or two. As if this month hasn’t been torture enough, waiting, waiting, hoping and waiting.

johnggflynnxmas11This time last week, I don’t think me or My Angel slept a damn wink. Both nervous, anxious, excited, scared and emotional as all hell for each other. Neither of us wanted to disappoint. For me, I didn’t want her to have to go through all this for nothing – and she didn’t want to have gone through a month of injections – which she had to administer by herself due to her hubby being called away for work, all while nursing a broken foot and managing two young boys on her own – to end up with flying fuck all to give.

It was possibly one of the most anxious waits I’ve had after dropping her at the hospital on egg collection day. Sick with nerves not just for the outcome but how she would go in surgery, if she’d be hurling up like a maniac when she came out, doubled over in pain after having her insides realigned or regret having gone through a major surgery for something she never had to do in the first place. After an hour, the hospital phoned to say she was ready to be picked up. Shit, that’s way too quick. Turns out it wasn’t. The little trouper was up on the trolley and all done in a wham-bam-leave-your-eggs-at-the-door-thank-you-mam 45 minutes. It felt kinda strange going through the doors into recovery for once, not sitting on the other side of them but there she was, My Angel, up and dressed, bounced back with very little trace – apart from a whopping great canula hanging out of her arm – that she’d just had surgery.

I give her an almighty hug, what else can you give someone who has just done the most selfless act a woman, friend and all round bloody fantastic human can do. She burst into tears, ‘I’m so sorry, I thought there’d be more…’ she said sounding quite exasperated. Bless her wee cottons. To her, a measly 11 eggs was like losing the Grand Final. Like fuck it was. Eleven is a brilliant number, it’s my month of birth! Super good luck. But for the anxiety and nerves that take over your head, she had wanted more. She wanted a huge abundance of eggies flipping backstroke around the petrie dishes. I want so much for her not to be feeling the pain, the nervousness, the fear we are both feeling right now – well all except the pain. For once, my ovaries were spared the interrogation torture.

It’s all going to be fantastic, I tell her. Now we just sit back and wait for the lil embies to multiply. Only this time it’s not just me and The Vet waiting desperately for answers from the Lab. It’s My Angel too. She’s just as anxious for the phone calls. Just as worried about our numbers. Throughout her cycle, she has been nothing short of incredible, brave, generous and strong. When, and it will be a fucking when, I do have a little human to tell this story, I will tell them how incredibly brave and generous and selfless and loving the beautiful woman who helped create them is.

We learn the following day we have seven embies that made it. Bloody awesome. Look out Octomum, here comes Lady MamaG. Over the next three days we still have seven ‘beautiful looking embryos developing away nicely’. I’m flat out creating versions of my very own multiple birth reality tv show that is until Day Five. Judgement Day. That’s when we’ll know how many of our super lil embies will make it to the freezer for laters.

Our results are: Two day five embies and one day six. That’ll do me. Always wanted triplets anyway. All I need to do now is think up a third name. Jokes. It’s such a fuckhole ride from here on in and names will be the least of my worries…

In a few days it’s back to my old mate Progynova (some hormone bound to make me even kinder, more sane and far far less likely to spin the fuck out than I currently am) followed by some other friendly fertility neccessities before a somewhat (hopeful) transfer in a few weeks’ time. Note to the general public: Do NOT approach me in the park and lay into me because my dog walked through your garden (that borders onto the park). I will fuck you up.

March has proven to be my lucky fertility month before…well just the once but I’m hopeful as all hell that it proves to be again.

The weeks ahead will be nothing short of torture…for me, for The Vet, for My Angel and for the 13 y o so on International Women’s Day thank you to all my beautiful peeps who check in daily, and make this your journey too. Love the shit outta yah’s. Lov’n’hugs Lady MamaG xox

Here goes…

Twenty twelve was a bloody ripper year. Kicked off with a bang, not only did I join hearts with the better half of me, The Vet, with a couple of gold bands, our boy and the most important people in our world, but it was also a time before life began being lived by the day, measured by the month, suspended in an everlasting cycle that has seemed to stretch on for five fucking blinding years. 

But hell, what’s life without a few lessons right?

I’m helluva grateful for what it’s shown me. That the scars embedded deep in my soul have taught me to be forever grateful for love. For family. For second chances. 

To be grateful I’ve got someone to share in the oceans of tears shed these past five years. And fuck me, there’s been a lot of ’em.  For the people around me and for the world’s most beautiful mini human who’s not only on this ride with us but is totally counting his eggs  before they’ve hatched (declaring it will learn all his b ball skills by age four, regardless if it’s a boy or girl).

Grateful I was once able to build a child of my own, and that pride will never leave me. Maybe even be grateful of the lessons I’ve learned when your body stops working like it should. 

A little while ago I read two books that stuck with me so much I’ve gone back and read them again. Twice even. Both involved infertility and IVF. When I first read them I thought ‘oh that’d never be me. I won’t have to do IVF. Fuck that shit and the horse it rode in on.’ 

Turns out I’d have to be force fed my words with a gigantic mother of a spoon and indeed would do so much IVF the nurse at my specialist’s office needs a trolley to wheel in my medical file it is that fucking big. True story. Later I’d say ‘oh no, not donor eggs no I’ll keep trying till I have none left.’ Yep turns out that too was a declaration full of horseshit. 

Failure, heartache, disappointment and fear will change your view on life and the things you think you’re so certain about until you really and truly are faced with choosing something different. Never thought I’d be doing IVF. And then I did. A whole lot. Never thought I’d need or use donor eggs. And now I am. 

So maybe I’m grateful to have been through this, however painful it might’ve been because I’ve learned what I have and grown how I have. Hope, resilience and persistence becoming my greatest allies in this fight and the realisation not everything you think you’ll do needs to stay the same forever. That all you have and hope for don’t have to define you but they are allowed to be your focus

I’m grateful there’s people who care enough to ask ‘how are you going, what’s the next step?’ Rather than wishing I didn’t have to explain it again and again. Just be glad they do. Being grateful  there’s people like Dr Babies to encourage you to climb outside your comfort zone and do whatever it takes for your hopes to be realised. Instead of saying you can keep trying when you both know it’s in vain. 

Grateful there’s people like My Angel who watch, listen, read and feel your heartache enough to want to willingly gift a piece of themselves and help build a baby you can no longer grow on your own. 

Grateful there’s someone generous enough to go through just one of those journeys you’ve ridden so many times yourself before without so much as even the tiniest bit of hesitation. Just jumped straight in head first the minute her bloods came back with perfect scores. To endure countless counselling, invasive blood tests, more needles than you’d ever like to see enter your body and a surgery for you and your darling Vet. All this with not one bat of an eyelid. Just hope and excitement to match our own for the greatest outcome.  

Next week My Angel will start her own journey unlike anything she’s ever done before. Hormones will fill her body and needles will likely make her feel like a bucket of shit. There will be nerves from us both, neither wanting to disappoint the other but whatever the outcome…however this journey unfolds it will cement us in a bond so great, filled with such love and kindness and gratitude we can be nothing but grateful…with hope, Lady MamaG xoxo

A lil’ glimmer of hope…

My horoscope asks if I’m feeling lucky…says 2017 will be my year, apparently. Something about Jupiter aligning for the first time in 10 years or some bullcrap…but by Jesus, I’ll take it thank you, please.

Twenny sixteen can go kiss my ass quite frankly. It’s been a collection of shitty shitful and a little more shitness so I’ll be quite glad to leave it behind tomorrow and look forward to a new year not just for me, but for the 13 y o braving teenhood with major trepidation, for The Vet juggling the most ridick workload while trying to wedge in family time, and the odd visit to the black couch which he likens to a seedy low grade porn flick, and even for the mutt whose had surgeries on both his hind legs and even given a blood transfusion to a poor sick dog, bless his fluffy self.

Twenny sixteen was the year I finally turned my back on infertility and said fuck no, you will not win. After umpteen gazillion attempts, virtually no eggs to speak of, exposing my family to an unnecessary amount of hormonal unkind and almost completely losing my head…maybe I can start to breathe a little easier.

There are things, acts of kindness humans can do for each other, that compel us to believe there is good in the world. That even though there’s so much horror, war, terror, suicides, terminal illness, abuse and general unkind there are still good things to be grateful for and at the top of the Christmas tree will always be the shining star that is my family, my lifeblood but there among the closest branches are my friends. Without them my days would be empty. My feelings would be kept inside.  My strength would waiver.

Which is why, when about a month ago my every faith in humankind, in friendship and in sistahood was completely restored. I had a call from a very special friend that left me speechless (which doesn’t happen, like ever). It sent me into floods of tears. It made my heart stop. I had to pull over and, head hunched over the steering wheel, tell her I’d have to call her back.

There are acts of kindness and then there is this. Throughout my life, I’ve had many moments where my friends have literally lifted me up from the ashes like a Phoenix but quite possibly none ever as much as this.

‘We’ve been thinking and we’ve talked about this a lot,’ she said before pausing. ‘But I never quite knew how to approach it…I want to give you my eggs. No one deserves to have kids more than you guys and I want to help, I’ll do whatever it takes.’

That’s it. Those words. Our beacon of hope floating in our drowning ocean of loss. Even now I can’t type them without my eyes fogging up.

The most selfless utterly beautiful, kind and generous thing a sista could ever do for another.

Not only is she a beautiful person and friend for even offering but she ticks all the boxes, including having an off-the-charts egg count. She’s kind, caring, loving, intelligent, an incredible mother, and most of all she’s compassionate, kind and generous. And what are the chances, we even look alike too? I honestly couldn’t have picked better if she were straight out of a catalogue. She comes from a beautiful family and has a wonderful loving and kind husband who is fully in on the deal too (which sure helps).

I don’t think there are words I can even write to say how much that call changed my life, our life. How the generosity of what’s she’s doing can never ever be truly measured there just isn’t enough gratitude in the whole stratosphere.

They call them Donor Angels and she  most certainly is, the kindest most darling Angel girl who has given me hope when I thought I’d never find it. Who has helped expose a tiny slither of light at the end of the tunnel.

Yes, this is just the start and I know there are a shitload many more mountains for us to climb but I’m ready…I got this bitch, I’m a comin’ atcha with everything I got…

Maybe the horoscope has some insider info, maybe this will be our year of hope, of stars aligning of the loss to end for this Scorpio Girl. And if it is, Jupiter, I sure be counting on you.

The staff at the cafe I’m sitting are looking at me a little strangely most likely wondering why some chick is crying into her phone so I’ll sign out till the new year. Happy happiest twenty seventeen to all and every people. I hope yours is as good as I’m counting on mine being. Love and light, Lady Mama Gxoxo

Right before my eyes…

Thirteen years ago today…at 9.30 in the morning I knew life would never be the same. As long as I breathed air into my lungs, I’d walk to the ends of the earth for you. The day you came into my life lil Peanut, was the day I stopped just being a person…and became a mum. I looked into your teeny sleepy eyes and knew you were the best thing that ever happened to me. 

Your entry into this world was as you always live, in a hurry to get someplace. It started with small contractions at midnight, your daddy was so excited every time I moved, he thought you were on your way, and by morning you were here. We’d waited so long to meet your gorgeous tiny and our love for you was more than we ever knew possible.  

The happiest lil Vegemite I ever did see, you giggled and smiled your way into the hearts of everyone who met you. A charmer with your whispy hair of spun gold and twinkling blue peepers, every day with you in our lives is even better than the one before. 

By the time you’d grown big enough for me to send off to school I did it choking back the tears and hiding behind stupid big sunnies. My tiny boy outweighed by this huge navy backpack and hat that came down so far over your noggin your eyes barely peeked out beneath it. 

Now you’re a teenager and these years my boy, they’ve gone by in a blink. I can’t hardly believe that teeny Bub I heard take his first word, did a happy dance as you took your first wobbly step, never wanted to let you go as you said a final goodbye to your daddy, held my breath and watched on as you wheeled along on two wheels all by yourself, roared at the sidelines like a proud lioness as you scored your first goal…and as you took my arm and lovingly gave me away to the man who is your idol, your hero…

It’s hard for a mum to watch her boy grow bigger by the day, go from a boy to a lad, see him falling from her clutches as he inches ever so much closer to manhood but know we are so damn proud of what you’ve become kid. Of your kindness and compassion for others, of your everlasting strong love for everyone in your life, of your determination and devotion to be something great, of your ability to see all that’s great in the world, of the way you remind us to laugh every day and live as though we had none left. 


You are the greatest…and will always be 

With all my love from galaxies near and far far away, happy happy day no-longer-12-y-o. Love, Mama G & The Vet xxo

One, two…nothing…hope lost

For those who know me, you’d be well aware this girl right here don’t raise her eyelids for nothing before the hours of 7am…there really is no need.

Except last week, I was awake at five every morning. I knew the lab would be calling each morning – obviously not at 5am, but that’s what time my body clock seemed to think would be a good enough warning to prepare me – with the update on our only two embryos that had managed to fertilise. Day one, we have two embryos. Day two they are growing. Day three, still growing. Day four, they’re still looking good. By day five, the lab says, if you don’t hear from us, expect your transfer to go ahead tomorrow morning. We’ll call you if there’s bad news. My body must have had some sixth sense the news wasn’t going to be good, hence the bolt upright Saturday morning to check my phone. It’s 5.03am, go back to sleep. But there’ll be nothing of the sort.

By 9am, I’m happy enough we haven’t heard from the lab, so it must be great news. I drag the 12 y o along in place of The Vet who’s tied up at work but once we get to the clinic it’s not as good as I thought. ‘The doctor will have a word,’ the nurse tells me. Oh shitsticks that can’t be good. He says while the embryo’s haven’t completely disintegrated, they also haven’t reached blastocyst stage which is required for a viable transfer. ‘We will wait till tomorrow and see if they can’t grow overnight,’ he says. ‘If you don’t get a call, we’ll see you at 9’. The 12 y o grabs my hand in a firm grip.

Another night of waiting. Torture. Except that isn’t a descriptive enough word. Every single ounce of our hope is pinned on this working. Four years of my body not belonging to myself. My sex life revolving around stupid fucking cervical mucus and ovulatory preparation. Being one step away from batshit-motherfucking-crazy-hanging-on-the-edge day in day out. My family having to put up with said mood swings for a large part of that four years. The bloating, the pain, the injections, the anesthetics, the hair loss, the weight gain, the depression, the disappointment, the unwelcome changes in every part of my body…the want to tell The Vet he’d be quite within his rights to ask for a refund on his utterly defective wife who can’t fulfill the one hope they all dream of, who could easily pick himself up a much younger, working model with pipes that are not just there for decoration…

Sunday morning. Five am again. Fuck me, who even needs to be up at this hour, apart from the birds? By seven, I think it’s looking positive. Seven thirty comes and hope is filling up to my ears. Yes, yes, yesssss little Hugo and Evie are ready and waiting to be planted into mama’s uterus and grow into beautiful teeny foetuses! Not ten minutes later and the number I really don’t want to see appears on the screen. I exchange my vitals with the scientist to ensure she’s not talking to some random woman answering my phone pretending to be me and about to get the worst news in the world. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘The embryos have not developed further, in fact they’ve gone backwards.’ One, two…nothing. Bye bye little Hugo & Evie, it wasn’t meant to be…

This was meant to be the one. The one we’d waited for. The one that would work. Everything was hanging on this. I’ve been a very good girl for six months. Weekly needles, swigging every herbal remedy known to womankind, quit drinking, eating too much gluten and flung my legs in the air in the name of Pilates for six fucking months…and all for what…? Blown close to the cost of a small house, tested my stress levels and heartache to breaking point over 1460 days…to end up here. Nothing. Nudda. Your eggs are shit. You’re defective. Infertile Barbie, the one noone wants to take home.

Tears shed. Hearts shattered into a million pieces. Everything we’ve been trying for, all that’s consumed our lives…gone up in a puff of shitassing smoke. It has engulfed me for the best part of four years. Every day I wake up thinking about it. Every night I close my eyes hoping for a miracle. But no, not today, not tomorrow and unless I happen to fall in the five percent of women aged 41 who can conceive naturally, there will never be.

johnggflynnxmas11It was never my intention to stay this long in firm clutches of IVF but like a gambling addiction…you can’t help but think ‘the next one could be the ONE…’ Call it stubbornness, optimism or plain stupidity I’ve never let the numbers dictate when we stop but when you’re only plucking three measily shitful eggs from a possible nine follicles that left your insides feeling as though they’d been through a mincing machine, it’s probably time to give up. And we said we would. This was our last round trying to use my eggies, trying to have a little me and him. A sibling for the 12 y o with some of his own genetics. Now it’s time to hand it over to someone else. To ask the universe if there’s someone kind enough, generous enough, young enough (under 32) and willing enough to put her body through a shitful round of injections, hospitalisation and a few days of internal pain to help our dream come true…to add to what is already the most loving, kind and beautiful two blokes to ever set foot on this earth.

I sure hope she’s out there…and she can make this happy little family even more perfect…lov’n’hugs, Lady MamaGxox