Mourning for the Daddy he’ll never know…

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Blissfully unaware: the day tragedy struck…

I remember exactly where I was on Friday, October 6, 2006. I could tell you everything about that day piece-by-piece. Painting my toenails Chanel ‘coral’. Reading a gossip magazine. My pink and white bikini strapped under my shoulders so I wouldn’t get strap marks. I remember it like it was yesterday. This picture was taken on that very same day. My 8 y o was just two-and-a-half in that photo. Look how happy he is. Look at that cheeky little smile. Look at the chocolate smeared all over his face. He is a typical toddler. Chubby little squishy arms, rounded cheeks and his too-long fringe tickling at his eyelashes. He is young, innocent and sweet. Just like a little boy should be. But he is also utterly oblivious to the world of horror unfolding thousands of kilometers away in Sydney’s Blue Mountains.

This week will mark the sixth anniversary since we tragically lost his Daddy and I will always get shivers through my spine when I look at this photo. For so many reasons, most of which that I wish I could protect him from a world of pain and sorrow but also I am glad that on the worst day of both of our lives…he is happy. He’s not in the ICU unit of the RPA hospital watching his Daddy hooked up to machines helping his heart to beat, his lungs to breathe. He is not surrounded by people we know and love all praying that his Daddy will come out of his coma. He doesn’t have to watch as his Mummy keeps a bedside vigil, hoping and praying with each passing hour that the broken man beside her will open his eyes. He won’t have to hear the screams and cries as the doctor’s tell her it’s just no good. He’s not coming back.

He was too young to remember that day. Not even old enough to go to school, or to ride a bike. And sure not old enough to understand that his Daddy was never coming home. Ever. It was my job to protect him from harm, from grief and from sadness. I left him behind with a friend when I flew to Sydney to be beside his Daddy as he lay dying. I’ll never regret that decision because that is what a mum is supposed to do. I couldn’t bring his Daddy back to life but I’d make damn sure I spent the rest of mine shielding him from the grief we would both have to live with.

As he gets older, he wants to know more. He wants to look at pictures of his Daddy, wear the same clothes as he did and even likes to listen to the same music. He is almost entirely made up of the genes of his Daddy and I see it more and more with each day. He wants desperately to be around anyone with any link to his Daddy, as if trying to keep his own faded memories alive. There will never be a time when I don’t look into his eyes, the exact same eyes of his Daddy’s, and wish I could change things. Wish I could bring his Daddy back. There’s never going to be a time that I don’t mourn for the Daddy he never got the chance to know. All I can do is be grateful I have my strong, courageous and cheeky 8 y o to remind me of the beautiful soul his Daddy left behind.

Oh but we are lucky. We are lucky that his Mummy has found the most incredible man to fill our lives with happiness again. A man who respects the shadow that is left behind, while doing a mighty fine job at standing in – for us both. While we may have seen great sorrow and sadness in our lives, we will never ever forget to be grateful for what we’ve got.

Hugs, Lady Mama G x

Thirty something mama Reese Witherspoon pops out…Tennessee

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Out pops little…Tennessee…such a lovely ring to it

Reese has done it. And she’s 36. And she has an eight-year-old. And she has a new husband. And she’s a moviestar. Okay, so the similarities end there but she does give those of us in the desperate thirty-something-mama category the tiniest flicker of hope that we too might one day get lucky. The little boy who she called, wait for it… Tennessee James, is her third child and was born yesterday – which was presumably around her due date because she was beginning to look like she’d smuggled a small African nation under her dress (I hear ya, sista, 26-kg gain over here).

She is a Southern belle n’ all, but Tennessee? Really? What do you shorten it to? Tennis ball? Yes it’s Hollywood but spare a thought for these little tykes who have to live with their names like, forever while their famous parents try to outdo each other with their I’m-going-to-name-my-baby-something-wilder-than-yours celebrity baby name game (yes Gwynnie, we’re talking to you). Lately there’s been Duke, Pilot and Bluebell (yes, actual real names of Hollywood bubs). Fortunately, the new bub’s more respectably-named older siblings sister, Ava, 12 and brother, Deacon, 8 escaped the name shame but you can’t help but wonder if the kids had a hand in naming him, or did they all just throw a bunch of crazy names in a hat?

If we gave in to our 8 y o, our phantom baby would be called Captain Rex Buddy Hudson. But since we’re not leaving the naming debate open to anyone under the age of 33, we’re safe. For now. He too is growing almost as impatient as his mother (of course he is, we do share the same genes after all) and has absolutely no grasp of the fact this gig could take longer than we all expect. To anyone with kids home on school holidays right now, you know that reasoning with a child is not one of life’s most easiest tasks.

“Mummy when will the baby come?” he asked me yesterday. The result of me telling him (in every hope of instilling good morals) that you cannot have a baby until you’re married. “Oh, well you have to wait until you’re blessed with one inside your belly and then it takes nine months to grow”. He looks at me a little quizically and determines I have no idea what I’m talking about. “I can’t wait that long for my brother, can’t we get one now?” ah yes, the impatience of the tiny generation. Everything has to happen yesterday. “But what if it doesn’t happen, what if we can’t get one?” he comes back at me. Something you know that I don’t, kiddo? “Well, you just have to hope and pray I guess, mate, that’s all,” I offer up. “Well, I hope it does. And when it comes, I’m gonna save up all my best Star Wars guys and give them to him. And I’m going to teach him how to ride a Penny (ridiculously overpriced retro-inspired skateboards). And then, when he’s like five or six, I’ll show him how to get to the next level on Star Wars Lego Wii.” Ah yes, that’s my boy, teach it all of life’s most important lessons!

But who am I kidding? I should count my lucky far away planets that he even wants a sibling at all. For almost nine years he has had me all to himself. No sharing. No waiting. No fighting. Just me. And for that, I’ll be encouraging any tricks he wants to hand down as a blessing. Even knife juggling…or maybe not…

Yours, Lady Mama G x

Time it’s a tickin’: When days turn into weeks, turn into…this is taking forever…

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Promise, doesn’t hurt a bit…

I’m back at The Lovely Lady Doctor’s office and this time she wants to take some tests – ‘pre pregnancy screening’ she calls them. Just the usual: HIV, Hepatitis and all kinds of other delightful diseases as well as iron levels, and vitamin deficiencies. Charming. Not only can I not seem to successfully grow a little person in my tummy but it might be because I have unknowingly contracted some mosquito-infected disease too.

Oh and while we’re at it, she says, we’d better do a pap smear. It’s my lucky day! There ain’t no getting past this Sergeant Major…who seems to have uncovered it’s been well and truly over three years (I know, I know, slap my chops) since a speculum last saw the insides of my lady parts. She tells me I need to come back in another three weeks, once my results come through. “Uhh couldn’t we get them sooner, like maybe rush them through since this is sort of urgent?” I plead, convinced I am in my own state of emergency. I’m not sure she understands just how much I hate waiting.

I think of explaining to her that not only am I Scorpian, and we Scorpians don’t believe in waiting, but I’m also a 36-about-to-be-37 impatient Scorpian who really really wants a baby. Like now.

Lady Doctor doesn’t seem all that enthused by my impatience and goes right ahead and books an appointment for three weeks’ time. ‘Right. So I guess I’ll see you in a couple of weeks then, who knows what might’ve happened by then,’ I smile at her. She looks at me weirdly and is probably glad to see the back of this deranged hormonally-crazy girl.

When we next meet, I am hopeful. “Your tests all appear normal,” she starts. “Your iron is low” (note to self: stop in and buy the biggest steak outside of Texas on the way home). “But your vitamin D is up,” she counters. Yes! A win. Knew my tan was good for something! “So,” she says, looking over her specs at me again (so reminds me of my third-form English teacher) “Now you just need to relax and let nature take its course…so to speak…” I did think I would have to physically remove the eyeballs of the next person who said those words but seeing as Lovely Lady Doctor is here to help, I stop short and simply nod. “There is one other thing you can try…have you had acupuncture before?” she asks. “Nope,” I reply, possibly a little too eagerly and at more octaves than is appropriate inside a doctor’s room. “I know of a good acupuncturist who might be able to assist.” Well book the lim-ou-sine…I’ll be your little Voodoo if it means one of my lil’ egglings might hatch.

When I first meet Mr Needles he starts with a list of questions – some I believe to be completely irrelevant to the inner workings of my reproductive system but as he is the trained professional, I play along with his game. Turns out he knows his stuff and upon reading my body language (or my mind) decides I need to be ’emotionally cleaned out before my body can conceive’. He concludes that I am internally cold…which doesn’t mean I’m Cruella De Ville and collect spotty puppies but rather that I always have cold feet and explains my constant need to have too-hot-to-sit-in baths.

For anyone who is a needle-virgin, acupuncture does not hurt. Not one little pinprick (trust me, my needle phobia stretches well past the normal fear limit of a sane human being) and works on certain pressure points in your body, manipulating or releasing the muscles with needles. I particularly like that I don’t have a six-month wait to see Mr Needles.

Once question time is over, he asks me to lie up on the bed and begins placing tiny needles into my pressure points. He also runs a cord that spans from my hands to my feet to ‘bypass my inners and get my system working properly again’ of which he lights each end. There’s a slight warming sensation and then I lie there for about fifteen minutes.

After our little prickling session, he hands me some Chinese herbal tablets that I must take (by the handfuls) every day. I will need to see Mr Needles for a six-course duration, by which time he hopes everything will be in perfect working order once again. That makes two of us.
Wish me luck, my little munchkins! Hugs, Lady Mama G x

Ghost babies, standing on your head and spring cleaning your plumbing…

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Yesterday morning, the 8 y o appeared in our room at the sparrows fart looking rather pleased with himself indeed. He had carefully carried up the stairs some breakfast in bed for us. Though it might have resembled more of a milkshake in a bowl than actual cereal, it was totally fabulicious. And he was happier with himself than when Justin Beiber got his own jet. Totally the best treat ever. Completely reinforcing the positives of having children.

He is almost as desperate for a brother as we are to give him one. Always telling me he is like, the oooonly kid in his class who doesn’t have a brother and no amount of me telling him he isn’t will persuade him otherwise. He is in for a rude shock when a) if we do have one and it isn’t a baby brother and b) that it takes nine whole months for the baby to grow. Yes, this fact of life was one he was unamused with.

‘But I don’t want to wait that long for a baby brother!’ he protests. No love, neither do we, but patience is a virtue to all those born outside the month of November, son, I say and ask that perhaps he could pray to God and ask him if he might be able to send us a little baby brother.

I’ve done everything from downward dog to standing on my head and still, I wait. Mr Fertility God, if you are going to punish me like this, how about you do something constructive like give me nine months of morning sickness. Stop teasing me with all these pretend pregnancies before you send me utterly and completely bonkers.

I have vowed and declared to stave off any drinking in the preparedness of my womb (for a week or two at least). I will limit the amount of times I run 15kms (okay, slight fib). I will not jump out of any aeroplanes (lucky for me, scared of heights). I will stop eating (quite) so much chocolate and promise to do Pilates at least once a week. There you go little baby floating around in the atmosphere up there, you hear that? Your mama is getting all nice and ready for you…now just come and find me! I did say please…don’t make me say it AGAIN in my outside voice!

I may have promised in earlier posts I wouldn’t take any more pregnancy tests but I’m a control freak which also gives me the power to change my mind at will. Yet again it promises 99% accuracy. So accurate in fact, that it tells me in big fat words ‘You. Are. Not. Pregnant.’ Loser. Take that, like a slap in the face with a cold barramundi. Bastard test.

I google pregnancy test addiction support groups but the search doesn’t come up with much… just a few IVF clinics and something that looks suspiciously like a black market for surrogates or Russian prostitutes, not entirely sure which.

And just to be certain I’m not going stark raving mad (er) I book in to see a new doctor for what she calls some ‘pre-pregnancy screening tests’. When I take my seat in the good doctor’s chair (I’ve asked for a female seeing as she’s going to be looking over my lady bits, there’s only one bloke I’m happy to get that familiar with just yet and he’s my husband. Oh yes, you’d better believe I’m well aware there’s no such thing whatsoever as dignity once the little person makes their way out your love tunnel, but until which time, let’s just make acquainting myself in that area with as few males as possible.

‘Everything looks fine in here,’ she says as she puts down her speculum, pinging off her white rubber gloves and tossing them in the bin beside her. ‘You can get off the bed and get changed.’ Hmm so she obviously can’t see the ghost baby inhabiting my uterus like a little alien, either.

‘So how long have you been trying?’ the doctor asks.

‘Well so far it’s been… about uhhhhm…eight weeks I think.’ I attempt to cough out the words in the hope she accidentally mishears me and mistakes it for eight years.

The doctor looks over her little specs at me. ‘So you’ve only had one or two cycles so far…?’

Well that would be a yes, but the last time round it happened so quickly, before you could even say which colour booties should I buy, I was up the duff. ‘Yes, just one,’ I reply feeling like I’m back in school again.

‘Right, well I think you better just relax and keep trying. A fertility doctor won’t see you until you’ve been trying for at least six months, without any luck,’ she says abruptly and, I suspect, thinking to herself she has an absolute twat of a woman sitting before her.

Yes, but…I want to yell at her, it was so easy the first time, why isn’t it now? I don’t want to see an IVF quack just yet, I just want some you know, testy type things done on my pipes…check they’re still working and all that. Plumbing hasn’t been used in a while and could need a little spring clean or something.

‘Right, okay, thanks for that,’ I tell the doctor as I pick up my bag and dart out the door, tail between my legs and my ghost baby possibly falling out of my uterus as I gallop out of the clinic.

Looks like this pregnancy gig is not quite as easy as I thought it was going to be.

Back to more waiting…such fun.

Hugs, Lady Mama Gx

 

 

A LITTLE BIT of me…Confessions of a fertility test junkie cont’d…just a bit of a baby-crazed maniac

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why you should never pick up a stranger’s baby…when you’re hormonal

I have become an expert at phantom pregnancies. It seems all my five-hundred-and-sixty-two fertily phone aps I’ve added to my phone are not helping with my slight insane addiction concern with bearing a small person in my uterus. I check in with my one little favourite at least fourteen times a day, just to make sure it hasn’t changed…and strangely enough it doesn’t seem to differ from what it was the last time I checked. Two hours ago.

Yes, a more sane person wouldn’t have the same need to check, recheck and one-more-time-check to see if there are any slight rises in basal temperatures. But, since I am no sane person, I’ll settle with the dozen or so times it takes before I actually register there has no change, will be no change and it’s quite likely I am becoming more delusional the more time I spend looking at the stupid little blue screen, waiting for it to change.

See, there’s the problem. Ten years ago there were no apps. There weren’t even iphones. The only time you could check your computer was in your home and even then it was dial up and by the time it connected, you’d forgotten what you wanted to research anyway. There is such a thing as being too informed. There’s also such a thing as becoming too addicted to iphone fertility apps. What? Me?

Sometimes I feel like all the new mums and their newborns in the world seem to swarm on me the moment I set foot inside a cafe, shopping mall or go to the supermarket. They’re everywhere with their cute little squished up faces, all snuggled into their tiny cuddly blankets. It’s like they’re taunting me. Only they’re not, of course. But hormones will get the better of you and make you think cray cray things. Like the time I was having lunch with some of the girls and saw a brand spanking newbie all snuggled in its carrier. It took every ounce of my will power not to go and snatch that little thing up for a snuggle. Except the mother would probably think I was a deranged baby snatcher and have me arrested. ‘They’re probably sleep deprived anyway and would love a little break’. I say to the girls with just a hint of seriousness. Thing is, I’m not actually joking. I would give my left knee cap to have a baby right now. I am The Most Clucky Girl since Nadia Suleman, Octomum. Except I really don’t want eight babies. Well not at once anyway.

I’ve also taken up a new hobby which excited my hubby no end. It’s watching every single episode of One Born Every Minute that my little eyelids can take. You know the one, a documentary filmed in a maternity hospital where they show all the new bambinos coming into the world. It’s even better than finding out Hanson has reformed. But I’m not sure my husband shares my enthusiasm for these shows and is possibly beginning to regret his decision to ask me to be his wife – especially when I settle in beside him on the couch with my choccie bar and cup of tea as though we’re about to watch an action flick.

He rolls his eyes and quite likely mutters inside his brain that he married a baby-crazed maniac. But don’t feel sorry for him, the fun is just starting. I’d happily watch back-to-back episodes all day long. Watching teeny tiny little scrunched up munchkins come into the world…what? There’s no graphic bits…well, not real graphic ones anyway. They blur out the lady parts. Though I have noticed he does go a little quiet and squirms a lot when the birthing bits come on. Best he gets all the exposure he can… there is nothing quite more frightening than a pregnant woman during labour. Oh, fun times ahead.

Hugs, Lady Mama Gxx

10 Reasons you should never tell a Fertility-challenged girl to ‘just relax’…

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K-Middy and me…both on bump watch

If there’s one thing that drives us fertility-challenged girls more crazy than conceiving itself, it’s being told to ‘relax’. And if you’re not careful, you could find yourself in the firing line of a rather sharp object heading towards your head the next time you tell someone to ‘stop thinking about it’. Not safe words to be said to a woman of extrodinarily high hormone levels. For one: You don’t actually know if it will happen, and telling her to just ‘stop thinking about it’ is a bit like putting yourself inside a shark cage with an open door, and saying nothing can get you. Thirdly, if guys you work out how many times guys think about sex every day – multiply that by a hundred and you’ll be somewhere in the ballpark of how much it consumes our crazy little heads. I have reached the stage where if someone told me to eat nothing but fish heads for a week because that would guarantee conceiving, then hell yeah, I’d be loading them into my car boot my the bucketload. But it’s quite possible the next person who tells me ‘it’ll happen’ may just find the toe of a four inch stiletto rammed firmly into their rectum.

This is pretty much how my life goes now that getting pregnant is making me crazier than Britney in a head shaving binge my passtime. I haven’t long been on the fertility runaway train but it’s holding on tighter than Muhammad Ali in a title fight, it’s been long enough and I already want to get the hell off at the next frigging stop.

And so it is that once again, I find myself emotionally acquainted with my bathroom floor. There’s an empty pink and silver foil wrapper scattered at my feet and I feel like a pregnancy test junkie…waiting, anxiously, for the little pee stick to turn pink through its viewing window. I haven’t been this excited about peeing since I once got stuck in a line at a concert after skulling my beer and was bursting so badly I thought my bladder would self-implode.

I ought to point out here, I am textbook symptomatic. I suffer evil bouts of morning sickness at the slightest hint of a small person inhabiting my womb. I am just slightly more hormonally-insane and desperate with each passing baby-less day and now, whenever either one of my mammaries feels sensitive, or if I feel the teensiest bit queasy, I’m absolutely certain they are signs. If I feel hungry…I decide yep, definitely with child. If I crave chocolate – oh, for sure I’m knocked up. Don’t feel like running for six k’s today? You can bet your grant auntie’s ruby ring I’ve got a bun in the oven.

At this point in time, my belly is feeling slightly more rounded and I feel more nauseous than a hangover after a night on French martinis. Well, almost. And no, it’s not due to the half kg of camembert and French bread I downed earlier…my chest feels as though it’s made of china and could break on touching (and by that I mean don’t come within a tiger’s whisker of my top half or I will be forced to bite your arm off). So off I go to the pharmacy in pursuit of a Test. Yes, one of thooose tests. Oh but how many freaking pregnancy tests do they sell?! Of course I do what any normal hormone-riddled woman would do. I buy all five of them.

‘Never can be too certain,’ I smile at the girl who serves me as she shifts slightly uncomfortably on her feet and scans the barcode of each pink box before depositing the collection into a non-transparent paper bag. She smiles – one of those false ‘I’m not sure if you’re credibly sane’ lip creases – and sends me on my way.

Good. At least no one will see I’ve purchased enough pregnancy tests to keep a Malaysian baby racquet going for a month. I shove my stash under my arm and make for the exit, feeling a little like a K-Middy trying to avoid the paps. Except I’m not Royal. And I’m not as skinny as her. And I’ve got blonde hair.

I take out my first test. Says it’s 99% accurate which at this stage, I’m happy to accept. Setting the little plastic test up on the bench (yes, on top of some toilet paper, in case you were concerned) and wait for the window to do its thing as the traces of pee climb their hike toward their uncovering destination.

Utterly hormonal, impatient and a little bit (okay a frickin lot) anxious before taking said test and awaiting its result is almost as nerve wracking as your first virginal shag. The test says you must wait three minutes before it’s reading can be accurate, but it’s pretty clear to see that there is only one measly little bloody pink line.

The Scorpian in me says it’s too early to tell. The control freak in me decides it could be a faulty test. I thank myself for purchasing another four tests as backup. Very good Girl Guide, always be prepared (not that I ever was a girl guide but I still think I would have made a good one). This one says you’ll get better results if you test first thing in the morning.

So, the following day, with all my fingers, toes and nostrils crossed I get busy with my second test. I wait for the window to slowly develop… a sudden rush of excitement and then it dissipates faster than a drunk 19-year-old’s knickers.

Shitballs, I’m back to square one. Only one scummy little prick of a line. This is going to be one veeery long process. Waiting is crap. Especially when you have the well-adjusted patience of a four-year-old.

Now I have a whole entire month to go…I should have been born in a different star sign…

Hugs, Lady Mama Gxx

 

Little BITS OF ME – confessions of a fertility test junkie (when just one more test is never enough…)

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Thinking of getting me one of these…

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

Well hello there…

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Welcome one and all. If you’ve been following my previous blog, readmylippie.com, then you’ll know me pretty well. If you haven’t been, shame on you and give yourself a little flick on the ear. If you want to know more about me, you’ll find that at the ‘About Me’ section, funnily enough. 30SomethingMama is my frank account with the asshole that is fertility and the fact it is rather strangling me with its noose as I constantly ponder drive myself nuttier than Kathy Bates in Misery trying to awaken my ovaries from their coma-inducing slumber and produce a healthy bouncing bambino – preferably by the name of Hugo or Evie. Tune in – daily if you wish – and I promise I’ll attempt to keep you entertained…or at the very least keep your mind off your own fertility battles (if indeed that is what you’re suffering) if it’s anxiety issues, PND, shopping addictions or skin irritations, I might be able to help out the odd time too…Hope you like it. If you don’t then you probably don’t like Scorpions much. Or Loub’s. Or turkish delight tim tams. Totes kiddos, enjoy. Lady Mama G x