To anyone over the age of 21, 37 might as well be 67 or even 90 for that fact. Old, like, real old. Olden days old. Older than vintage, even. How did I go from deciding which Louboutin heels to buy to anxiously, desperately waiting for my pee to dry on a stick? It’s almost the same euphoric high as waiting to see how much you sold something for on ebay. Almost the same high as your wedding day and a close second to hearing Madonna is doing a live concert at your local pub. Okay, so maybe that last one was a bit far fetched but still, here I am awaiting the most exciting thing in my life since picking out my engagement ring (or should that have been the night I was proposed to?) Anywho, you get my drift. So here I wait. For two months I have consumed horse tranquiliser-sized tablets from my little pink box that promises my baby will be healthy and free from defects. Okay, so it doesn’t promise but it does profess to reduce the risks so as it was, I gulped those puppies down like a Xanax junkie on a daily basis, readying my long-unused womb for its impending visit of a little person. The last time I did this I was in my twenties. That’s over an entire decade ago, if you’re asking. I was what most might call in their ‘prime years of reproduction’. It took me just one month to conceive and for the next nine months I endured constant morning sickness, a completely unnecessary amount of weight gain and lots of my hair fell out. Not to mention that bloody pigmentation I swear had never even hinted at surfacing until my hormones decided to party like its 1999 inside my poor unsuspecting body. My weight gain was mostly due to consuming what could only be described as illegal quantities of chocolate in my bid to produce a calm and contented baby – or at least that’s the theory I subscribed to. (Look it up, they seriously do say eating chocolate can create a calm baby – okay so only limited amounts but I was going for a super calm baby so a kg a day would do it). And while it most certainly did produce a calm and contented (did I mention most beautiful baby in the world) it turns out vast quantities of chocolate might be good for your unborn baby, your post-preggy belly, hips and tuckshop lady arms, not so much. After 26 (yesss, really) heavy baby-induced kilograms suddenly wafted onto my unsuspecting frame, it seems those copious amounts of yummy brown stuff don’t go so well with skinny jeans. Neither do carb binges or double-decker ham and cheese toasties. Pilates, rocket and parmesan on the other hand, work a treat. Just ask Gisele, Miranda and Alessandra. So yes, the first time around I was ‘young’. Twenty-whole-seven. A good age. I didn’t plan on having a gap wider than Jess Hart’s teeth between my children, it just turned out that way. Unforseen circumstances you might say. I have had to eat a bloody good hunk of humble pie as I was indeed one of those women who – before I found myself unsuspectingly flung into this late motherhood gig – would always snigger at mums who ‘put their career first’ or simply didn’t want kids until later in life. Selfish I think were my words. Ah how karma can swing her ugly little head around and bitch slap you with an open palm. But more about that later, ‘cos you’re gonna need a good cup of tea and a bickie for that part of the story. Now I am one of those women – almost a decade on. Forgive me Fertility Father, for I have sinned. Mercilessly. It has been over 10 years since my last conception and I fear there’s so much to confess. But please, if you do just one thing, one good thing, Fertility God, just let me have another chance, and I promise I’ll be good. Great even.
This is the first installment…you’ll have to wait to see what the next chapter unveils…oh, it’s like waiting for the next Twilight installment, eh…? Okay, so it’s not but I bet you’ll tune in anyways. For now, sayonara. LadyMamaG x