How OLD is too old…?

That’s a bonny lot…Adele’s a mum at 24…

When my mum had the bonny lass she firstly named Fionna, then Rachel before finally settling on Lady Mama G, she would have been 25. And I was her second. When I had beautiful lil’ peanut that is now my big 8 y o boy, I was 28. The other day, singer Adele had a baby boy and she’s 24. Reese Witherspoon had her third little pinata at 37. Do you see where I’m going with this? Aussie fash designer Collette Dinnigan is about to pop out her second at 47. And, if you really want to get trivial, the oldest woman to have a baby was an American lassie named Frieda who was 65. And she had twins. Booya! You’re welcome, I aim to please with my clever collection of useless facts like a fart in a lift.

When I went to visit The Good Lady Doctor this week to do all besides donate my left kidney for a referral to see a specialist, we got to talking about age. Well, when I say we got to talking I actually mean I chewed her ear off for a good half an hour with all my paranoia that my eggs have shriveled into tiny caper berries, that I’m almost as old as the Sisteen Chapel itself and I’m not even sure if my ovaries are still firing on all cylinders.  I can’t say whether the Good Lady Doctor is altogether convinced I am sane. I’m also not entirely sure she’s convinced that I am remotely coherent.

She tells me I need to stop thinking about it and is especially concerned when she looks at my hands that are by now wringing nervously on my lap. ‘Look at your hands, you’ve got to stop being so anxious’ she says, almost cross at me. ‘Oh that?’ I tell her. ‘No, I’m always doing this, it’s a…uhh…Pilates type of hand movement that works on tensing up your wrist muscles, I’ve heard it’s….good for carrying heavy shopping bags and…hmm…blood circulation I think,’ I attempt to blind side her. She doesn’t buy it but I’m damned if I’m going to let it affect my chances of getting a referral.

She peers over her specs and asks me how long it was again since I’ve been trying to pee two lines on a stick. ‘I think at least six months, yep definitely, certainly,’ I tell her. She knows I’m a little out in my calculations but really, what’s a month or two between friends?

‘Very well,’ she says and types out my referral letter. Yesssss! I’m like one of Willy Wonka’s lucky golden ticket winners. I skip out of that office like one of the Von Trapp children and before I’ve even crossed the road into the carpark, I’ve added the specialist to my speed dial and have made an appointment for two weeks’ time.

In the mean time, I’m back to counting days and inserting thermometres into places you really don’t want to know…

Hugs, Lady Mama Gxo

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