And then it really sucked…why fertility is like a great big pile of poo

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through the grey murky haze...

through the grey murky haze…there is love

You know how they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…sometimes the former isn’t actually easier.

Going it tough does make you stronger but only because you are flung headfirst into it. Not because God hand-plucked you out of the crowd because he reckoned you had a hefty set of shoulders on you built to carry the emotional weight of a truck. If I had a buck or 10 for every time someone has told me, since losing my first husband, they could ‘never have gone through what I did’ – as if there were some sort of choice in the matter – let me tell you I’d be so rich I’d be bathing in some sort of liquid gold milk right now with hand maidens wiping my sweaty brow. Like there was an option. Like you could choose as though you were downloading an app.

Fertility is a bit like that. There are so many well-wishers just telling you to stop thinking about getting up the knock and you will fall. Try this weird and crazy diet, it’ll definitely work. Or, a friend they know – who had been trying for six years all but gave up and then what do you know, once they stopped trying it happened. Except it doesn’t. It doesn’t just happen much like death and losing someone doesn’t just happen, it isn’t just ‘a choice’ you take. It is one of life’s cruelest lessons.

Today when I got my 8 y o back home after he’d been on a week’s holiday up north do you know I held on to him so tight I think his head nearly popped off his shoulders. He just thought I was being weird and went about polishing off the lolly jar which hadn’t been touched since he left. If I knew, if each of us stopped to think exactly how much of a miracle our babies, toddlers, children and even teens (when they’re not hormonal or broody) are do you think we’d bother complaining when they don’t clean up their room or forget to bring their drink bottle home after school? Miracles. That’s what they are…every single one of them.

Today Dr Babies gave us some not-so-good news. Seems that the pipes were once working just fine but now have pretty much all given up on me. They’ve staged a protest outside my uterus and are flat out refusing to let anyone through as though it were the White House under bomb threat. Seems this impatient Scorpian and rather tetchy Lady Mama G had the right kind of gut feeling all along. (See Good Lady Doctor, I wasn’t just pulling your middle finger…)

The good news is we no longer live in the ’50s and there is such a thing, praise be, as IVF. However it is entirely possible that I am about to go all kinds of crazy, Kathy Bates crazy even, so watch the hell out family and close loved ones… I fear for your safey (and my sanity!).

But you know what? For all the grey murky haze that is blocking my head from thinking any kind of straight, there is a lot of bright breaking through. I have a husband who loves me very much and a beautiful almost 9 y o boy. I’m also not planning a funeral instead of my Christmas dinner. However bad things might be, there’s always someone for which it is worse. Much, much worse.

Love n hugs, Lady Mama Gxox

The final goodbye…

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Nine years ago in one week, I was in a hospital in Auckland’s Greenlane giving birth the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, my son. But a few thousand kilometres away, Denise Morcombe was busy combing the bush of her home and the surrounding area for her son. She was waiting for him to come bounding back through her doorway, a hundred miles an hour, telling her of the adventures he’d had. She was looking through every crowd in every shopping centre, in every school, in every car, on every bus for her beautiful sparkly-eyed missing boy, Daniel.

Unfortunately today, she laid that beautiful boy to rest. She never got the chance to see him turn 21, to watch him grow into a young man…or to have children of his own. She never got to see him fulfill his dream of one day becoming a vet. She never got to see him go to his high school prom, bring home his first girlfriend or even watch on anxiously the first time he learnt to drive a car.

For the Morcombe family there are many holes in the lives of his parents and his brothers who are left behind. There is a gaping chasm of ‘what if’s’, ‘maybes’ and ‘one days’ that they’ll never be able to share.

Their son and brother was tragically taken in the most horrific – yet completely normal – of circumstances. It was broad daylight, a busy highway, an area he knew but still, his life was ever so tragically cut short.

What his parents have done for the Sunshine Coast community, for the Queensland State and for the wider nation is nothing short of extraordinary. They have never once given up their crusade, not only to find their son, but to fight for his justice and to keep a reminder in the parents and children of our society of the most important factor in life…safety.

They are incredibly brave, courageous, selfless and tenacious humanitarians who have made it their life ambition to see some positive out of the most horrific of circumstances for which they faced. If you do one thing tonight, let it be to say a prayer for the beautiful almost 14-year-old boy they lost and the never-ending crusade for which they have never stopped fighting.

God bless your beautiful spirit Daniel, may it soar so high…

Love n hugs, Lady Mama G xox

When things don’t go to plan…

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message in a bottle...

message in a bottle…

What happens when you hit a bump in the road (mind the pun)? What happens when things don’t go the way you hoped they would? What happens with the stuff you can’t control? Well when you’re a 37 y o control-freak Scorpian, you totally lose your shit, that’s what.

When I first felt a twinkle in my tummy 10 years ago I thought I had the motherhood thing down pat. First go and it was a goal, can’t be much to this fertility gig…it’s a bloody cinch. I was completely complacent. Yes well you know what mother nature likes to do with those who are smug? She smacks them in the face with fertility issues like a cold barramundi.

I’ve seen many of my close friends and family battle with their own fertility issues. I’ve lent a consoling ear and shed a tear for them on their horrific and emotional ride. Not for once ever stopping to think that one day I myself would be swimming up that fertility river in a paddle-less canoe heading straight towards the rapids of the unknown.

Yep it’s fair to say Lady Mama G hasn’t had the best few weeks. There have been some good bits and some pretty shitty bits too. The good – well I’m still breathing. Another good bit is I have the handsomest and most precious 8 y o son and a delicious husband who make me complete. The bad bits are I have finally (after months of attempting to physically harm my GP) been to see a specialist. Don’t even get me started on why you have to wait so long or I’ll be forced to use profanities that would make a sailor blush.

So I finally get to meet who, for now we’ll call Dr Babies, because I sure hope that’s what he’ll bring this little elf for Christmas. He’s a specialist and is known to be the best in town. He also has more letters after his name than the entire alphabet so I figure if anyone’s going to get my little egglings to hatch, he’s the man for the job (oh, and The Vet of course).

After doing a couple of tests he comes back with what I’ve long suspected… my eggs have shriveled to something resembling a cross between a caper berry and a currant and I seem to have the egg count of a 50-year-old. They’ve pretty much packed up their bags and moved town. No goodbye note, just shot through. Not such great news when you need those little eggs to hatch. His other good news was that he suspects I have endo. Four days and a few holes in my belly later, I get to wait till Monday to find out any more good news.

I know there are like a gazilion women who have endometriosis and it’s completely curable. I also know there are women way worse off than me but it’s the fact I can’t control this ride that I don’t like. I need things in order. I need things done my way.

But mean ol’ Mama Nature, she got different plans…seems I might be getting a little more acquainted with the IVF needle…and we all know how Lady Mama G feels about needles.

Suddenly side-splitting labour seems like the easy part…

Love n hugs, Lady MamaG xox

Casper the (not so) friendly ghost baby…buzz OFF, you hear!

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Casper…the not so welcome friendly ghost baby

I wish I could tell you there were not 10 thousand loads of washing sitting on my laundry bench waiting to be folded. I also wish I could tell you there is not dog hair all over my (black) lounge room carpet. I’d love to tell you that there is not a load of (clean) dishes still in the back dishwasher waiting to be unpacked. But alas, people, this 30 Mama is all out of her compulsive cleaning disorder and the need to tidy up after myself, my two-year-old (did I mention heavily malting) golden retriever, my 8 y 0 son who likes to wear things for an hour and then chuck them in the washing pile rather than fold them and my ever-hard-working husband – the latter, both of which seem to have contributed to a rather large portion of the 18 loads of washing on my laundry floor I mean bench.

I’ve decided that rather than be chained to my laundry I will hide out in here on my computer until it does itself – or I find an app that can do it for me, or even better still…invent an app that will make me tonnes of money so I won’t have to do it ever again. After this is done then I’m off to catch a few rays while the glorious sun is beating out of the bright blue sky. Such melancholy.

Well it would be if it were not for the fact I am: No.1 a Scorpian (for those of you who regularly drink here, you will know this fact) No.2 a Control Freakazoid who hates mess and No.3 someone who really really really wants a cleaner. I have toyed with the idea of hiring one on the sly so The Vet doesn’t know but that would be a) mean because you should never lie to your spouse and b) completely and utterly ridiculous seeing as it is that I don’t have a job, or a newborn, or a small business, or even a nation to run and then the guilt would get to me so much that there would be pretty much no use whatsoever to have the cleaner who I do most of the cleaning for before she comes anyway.

So aside from mountains of laundry wreaking havoc with my stress levels there is also the fact that Casper the friendly little ghost baby is back inhabiting my womb again. He’s always hanging around week two or three of every month, you know just to drop by and tickle my uterus with cramps so I think it could be an actual small person or peanut instead of Casper who is really beginning to yank my chain right now. Casper, let’s get this straight, if you are not indeed a real baby then why do you tease and torment me in such a way that every time I get a slight tickle, sore wams, or increase in hormonal nuttiness that make me believe you’re not a ghost but an actual real live tiny person?

Before you started annoying me I was actually considering Casper as one of my names, now you’ve just totally ruined everything and I’ve had to resort back to Waterman or Albert, my other two favourite names – you’ve become THAT bloody annoying.

But not all hope is lost, there is still the ever all-warm-inside feeling I get from the 8 y o who constantly declares ‘when the baby comes’ rather than ‘if’. He’s all over it like Lilo at a bachelor party every day coming up with new names. None of them feature Casper but he has expressed his like for Cody, Tennyson (after a cartoon character, so very 2012 don’t you know) and shows constant distaste for his mum’s choice in baby names though none such as much as when he used my bathroom the other night. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, holding up my basal thermometer (yes, tucked safely in its plastic case) in his little paw. ‘Oh that’s for taking mummy’s temperature’ I told him. He wasn’t convinced because the only one he’s seen is the type that goes in your ear and is shaped completely different to the one in his hand. ‘Well it’s for measuring your inside temperature’ I tell him. ‘But where does it go?’ he keeps pushing. ‘Well it goes in mummy’s private parts’  I tell him reluctantly. You know that look you get when you really wish someone hadn’t just told you something and you want to hit delete on your mind but can’t? Well, I’m pretty sure that’s where 8 y o was about that point. That’ll teach him to be Mr Nosey Parker then won’t it!

Till next time…keep your ovaries happy, mamas!

Love n hugs, Lady Mama G xox

 

Another year another candle…

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Always by my side…

It’s my birthday in a couple of days…(don’t say I didn’t warn you) and as a Scorpian it is in my nature to remind you all of this fact. I like to warn those close to me at least once a day in the lead up to the anniversary of my birth you know, just in case they forget. There will be no ‘oh shit, sorry I forgot’ being uttered from the mouths of the Mama G household. None. At. All. Although my son – who I’d like to point out has been in my life for some eight years now, did say to me the other day ‘is it the 10th or the 11th?’ Excellent. What made it even better was when I asked him his OD’s (other dad’s) birthday he answered without hesitation. And it was the correct date. Anyway, I like to take at least a week to celebrate…after all it comes around but once a year. So this year I’ve decided to be a very good girl because the one thing – besides a new pair of bamboo Gucci sunnies – that I want most is to have a little person growing inside my belly.

Aside from things I want and the fact that having a baby is COMPLETELY CONSUMING MY EVERY MINUTE I would also like to go all soppy chick movie on you and be thankful for the stuff I have.

The World’s Best Husband. The World’s Best 8 Y O. The world’s best friends, for these things I am so lucky it hurts like a running stitch.

Without my friends I don’t know where I’d be. Because friendship is leaving your 10-month-old baby behind so you can cross the Tasman and be with your bestie on her wedding day. It’s working the late shift for 10 days straight just so you can go and be with her on her hen’s night. It’s spending your family’s holiday money on an air ticket to her wedding when you feel guilty about leaving your own kids behind. It’s making sure everything works out even when your friend is screaming and crying at the same time. It’s pulling an overnighter at the airport just so you can catch a standby flight the next morning. It’s naming your firstborn son after your friend’s late husband. It’s answering late night phone calls but not getting the shits when she doesn’t answer yours for the fiftieth time.

It’s telling her she looks hot even when she has a two-inch greasy regrowth and teenage acne sprouting from her chin, but it’s also telling your friend when she has a huge hunk of green plantlife submerged in her nashers. It’s never saying things that will hurt later.

Friendship is crying happy tears at the thought of her new beginnings. It’s knowing they’ll be there and have been there for all the endings too. It’s about offering an ear of advice not a beady eye of judgement. It’s listening when you know you’ve heard the same story a million times but still laughing like you’d never heard it before. It’s sending flowers on anniversaries when words are all that’s needed. It’s taking your kid for the night when you can’t get off the couch because you’re vomiting so much.

Friendship is picking up the pieces when you know they won’t fit back together again.

So as another year passes, no matter how many candles get added to my cake, how many more wrinkles turn up on my face and how many more kilo’s get added to my hips…I know I’ll always be the richest girl in the world because the greatest gift doesn’t come in a box, can’t be driven fast and can never be worn out…it is friendship.

PS: Thought I’d share today’s school run convo:
Mummy am I a miracle child? Came the voice of my 8 y o from the back seat. ‘Well, that depends what you term miracle, love. If it’s that you weren’t born with a film of brown around you because your mother consumed so much chocolate, then yes, you are quite the miracle. But what sort of miracle do you mean?’ ‘Well Joseph was a miracle. He could see into the future. He could predict things. He’s in the bible.’ ‘Yes, well in that case I’m not sure there are too many Flynns mentioned in the bible, so aside from you being my little miracle, no you are not a Miracle Child, no’. But I could be a miracle child. I might be able to see things in the future. ‘Yes, well let’s just see if you can miraculously finish your homework tonight then shall we, future boy’. Guessing that wasn’t really the miracle gift he was after.

Helloooooo universe, did I mention I’m lucky…?

Love n hugs, Lady Mama Gxox

An 8 y o who weighs 23kg…does that seem fat to you?

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Ever since he was a wee babe, my 8 y o has never been much of an eater. He prefers to snack and mostly on sweet stuff at that (pregnancy-related cravings can NOT be blamed for everything). He was never much of a feeder as a newborn, just a happy little vegemite…would get his little fill and be done with it. As a toddler, he was always in the lowest percentile in terms of weight…which believe me, becomes the bane of a mum’s life when all you want is for your kid to be healthy. I would have given my left tit – nipple included – for a bonny chubby little munchkin. But he is what he is.

All through his early years he was never very tall and certainly never had many folds in his little arms. Which can work in a girl’s  favour when you only have to buy clothes every two years and shoes even less frequently. I like to think of it as investment shopping ‘you’ll grow into it’ I tell him when the sleeves of his shirts almost reach his knees. ‘Nothing wrong with a little room to move, love, that’s what all the cool kids wear’. Fortunately for me, I have a very pliable young son who just nods in agreeance and wears whatever I tell him to.

He’s pretty much weighed the same for the past two years and has only really begun growing upwards in the past year. One day he’ll catch up, I tell him…just so long as he keeps eating them greens. So, you can imagine my horror when my whippet of a child came home and told me a kid in his class – who has been bullying him most of the year – told him he was fat. He was just about to get in the bath and stood there, staring down at his belly asking me why he was so fat. ‘What?!’ I was like that kid in the Exorcist. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘This kid in my class told me I was fat at swimming today.’

It took all of my strength not to march down to the school the next morning, pick up that little Twerp by his ear and force feed him a plate full of brussel sprouts.

‘No love, you’re not fat and nor will you ever be’ I told him in my most reassuring of voices. Shitballs, I mean really? Twenty-three kgs is fat? For an eight-year-old? This kid needs a whole lot more than glasses…he needs a personality transplant, quick smart. I thought it was only women who picked on each other about body image. But today, there are almost as many young boys suffering from eating disorders as there are young girls. And this, people, is where it all starts…bullying.

Fortunately for Twerp brain, the school term is about to finish and hopefully he goes away on a long holiday and his parents decide to send their little sausage to another school…in another district…or better still, another state. I’m a great believer in standing up for yourself when someone’s yanking your chain but this one did go a little far. This kid has been taunting him for most of the year – and despite this child’s overachieving (that’s not mine, but the Twerp’s) he wins the school cross country, the girls love him and he takes out most of the school prizes, what a shame he hasn’t got a nice bone in his body to match that handsome little face.

If you see a suspicious looking woman lurking in the carpark with a bag full of brussel sprouts…it’s almost certainly definitely not me. Promise.

Love n hugs, Lady Mama G xox

How OLD is too old…?

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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

Brought back from the dead: an 8 y o’s optimism…

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Rest in peace, Squishy

Last night there was a death in the family. Well, not our actual family so much as the plover family who have taken up residency in my front yard (so much so I was going to shout out and ask them if they’d like to contribute to my rates bill they like it here that much). For the past two weeks those squalking yellow-beaked maniacs have stalked me in my own home to the point where, when I take the dog for a walk, I’m forced to carry a 6ft bloody pole over my shoulder and wave it vigorously at them just to make it down my driveway.

They are fierce protectors them plover birds. It’s unfortunate then that they’re not protective enough to teach their fluffy little babies a few common sense road rules. And the consequences are dire.

On arriving home from dinner last night, our rather devastated 8 y o discovered the squished corpse of one of the plover family’s tiny babies which had met a rather unfortunate fate under the wheel of the car. It must have been looking for little wormies under the wheel or something and mummy plover was too busy trying to take our heads off with its flying overhead swoop to get her baby over to the safety of the lawn. Too late. Baby squished.

‘Oh I didn’t do a very good job of looking after them,’ came 8 y o’s response to the dead chick. ‘Can’t we fix it?’ he asked his step-daddy who was by now holding the limp and lifeless baby in his hand. Such hope, such optimism and after all, his step-daddy is one of his greatest heroes – and a vet to boot – if there was anyone who could save this little fluffball…it would definitely be him. ‘Sorry mate, but he’s squished’ we told him, by now with tears welling up in his little blue eyes.

I was beginning to worry that we were going to have to hold a burial ceremony for little squishy chick but fortunately we managed to get away with disposing of little Squishy so it’s mummy and daddy didn’t find it the next morning (and then take it’s nasty vendetta out on the driver of the car) by giving him the very dignified send off of being placed in the big green wheelie bin.

This morning mummy and daddy plover are still staking out their claim on my front lawn but now it’s just with one little fluffy baby and not two. Rest in peace, Squishy.

At least that’s what I think until I see mummy and daddy back and they’ve got two chicks again – there must’ve been another chick hiding all this time. I tell 8 y o to come quick and look out the window, there are two chicks. ‘The mummy plover must’ve found it in the bin and bought it back to life,’ he says. Bless.
Hugs, Lady Mam G xo

It will happen when it happens…the second most patronising saying in THE WORLD

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flamingos…a little less menacing than plovers

It’s funny how when you want things the most, they don’t happen but yet at the worst time possible they do. When my 8 y o was born (obviously he wasn’t eight when he was born but he was a bonny 8pd 3oz), we were in the process of moving house, moving jobs and moving countries. Faarrrrk it was shitballs. Excellent planning there by us. I can’t tell you how abso-darn-lutely it was the worst time ever to have a baby. I literally had a six-week old strapped to my chest and a mountain of suitcases. Fun times.

Looking back now I think I ought to have won me one of those Australian of the Year awards (ignore the small issue that I’m not Australian) because by hell I was living right up the top of stress street for the first six weeks of my baby’s life. I’m surprised I survived. I’m surprised he even survived and wasn’t left on the doorstep of the nearest orphanage with a note saying ‘have me’ and a week’s supply of formula tucked under his blanket.

I was talking about this with a girlfriend the other day (not giving my child to an orphanage, but having babies at inopportune times). She had been trying for over eight months to get pregnant and then, once she booked a four-week trip to the States (plus a whole lotta shopping and drinking) with her hubby whaddaya know it…she’s up the knock. It could be true what they say, when you least expect (or want) a baby, it will come. They have a funny little habit of interrupting your life those selfish little people. But while it might have worked for my stunning (did I mention younger) and perhaps considerably more fertile bodied friend, I’m not so convinced it will work for me because it IS ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT.

As I write this I am in great danger of being dive-bombed by an overprotective plover bird who is squawking mercilessly at my window as her tiny fluffy babies wobble over the lawn on their spindly legs. I tried to tell the mum I don’t want her babies, I’m actually after having one of my own but she won’t have it. She is actually trying to kill me by pecking. Through the window. 8 y o thinks it’s a wonderful lesson in nature. ‘I think we should leave our whole lawn for them,’ he says generously. ‘And if they want to swim in our pool, we should let them’. Thanks son that’s especially considerate of you when you are not the one who has to clean the pool of bird poop. ‘When will we have one of our own babies?’ he asks. Well, I reply, maybe when we plan an overseas trip or a move to outer-Mongolia. My words are lost on him of course because he can’t quite understand what traveling or moving to a country whose name he can’t even pronounce have to do with babies.

Maybe I need to think about planning a big ol’ trip to the US with lots of drinking, partying and shopping for expensive clothes that can only fit a non-pregnant girl. Or maybe I need to sell up, move jobs, home and country…

If you’ve got your own badly timed addition, feel free to share with the group, we won’t tell anyone…

Hugs, Lady MamaG xo

 

Danger zone: You make some crazy-assed decisions when you’re hormonal…

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Just a little bit crazy…

Sometimes I do some silly things not even I can explain. Like when I bought four packets of loo paper from the supermarket when I actually went in there for dish liquid. Or the time when I forgot I had still had my jammie pants on when I got out to fill up the car at the gasser. But lately I have been doing some silly things that involve a computer, an overly hormonal longing for a baby and a boredom not even TOWIE can cure.

As a side effect of creating a fertile wee temple for my sweet little ghost baby to inhabit, my skin is now resembling somewhat of an Iraqi battlefield. I have more breakouts than a teenage boy with an online porn addiction and I’m longing for my bloody pill. Yasmin, you good friend you. You made my skin clear, kept the last cling-on kilos at bay and while at times you might’ve meant my hormones had me resemble Kathy Bates in Misery, I still miss you. Lots. Sure I was blessed with my mum’s good skin – a little oily which means less wrinkles – but to have breakouts in your mid to latter 30s is all kinds of wrong.

Today in my search for fertility happiness and wellbeing I conducted my own… tests if you like… on If These Lady Parts Have Any Use Left in Them Whatsoever and on my little journey discovered a site named the Pregnancy Predictor. Explanation here perhaps not necessary.

Brilliant! Said my sweet little hormonal head. Maybe this is the key, fertility expert physicians be damned. Need I remind you again when a girl is all kinds of jumped up on hormones, she is willing to try anything – save selling her left kidney or maybe last season’s Jimmy’s – to find out if and when she might actually be able to fall up the knock.

Yes, I do realise it’s not normal to allow an internet site to determine whether or not you are fertile but my bus missed its ‘normal’ stop a good many months ago.

First it asks me for my details (all except my bra size) and at each step I watch the little line slide down like Lindsay Lohan’s undies til the last little step when it all but tells me I have raisins for eggs.

Want to know what it said? I’ll tell you. It told me my pregnancy prediction sits at a nice healthy whopping 8% chance of conceiving naturally and approximately a 37% chance of conceiving with IVF. Fan-bloody-tastic. Right now that’s a relief because I didn’t already think I was more baron than a 1950s spinster.

Guess if I’ve pretty much got Buckley’s chance of cooking my own maybe I’ll have to resort to different measures. Now where was that black market mail order site…? Kid-ding (before you slap me I wasn’t even serious). Pregnancy Predictor you know what you can do with your pissy-assed eight per cent…stick it where the trees don’t grow, sweetheart think I’ll stick to Mr Needles, thanks just the same. And I’m putting myself on an interwebby ban.

Hugs, Lady Mama G xo