Last words…

October 6, 2006 also fell on a Friday eleven years ago. It was an overcast day, scattered showers cloaked with deep grey cloud covering the mountain and stretching down her winding roads. 

I didn’t know it. He didn’t know it. Our little boy didn’t know it but the day before would be the last time we ever spoke. Words which might have at the time, seemed routine, insignificant, normal…the same ones we so often use…words that will forever be etched in my mind. 

If only we knew those would be our Last Words. We’d cram everything we possibly could into one last call. Years and years of words tightly bound into one last conversation where you’d say the most significant thing you could ever say to anyone. You’d hope and love and be grateful for all you’ve had together. 

You’d say remember the time we did this, you’d say thank you for giving me a lifetime of memories to keep in my heart forever. You’d say I don’t want to do this without you. You’d say don’t go. Please don’t go…

We’d been at a restaurant in Noosa that evening, the one before blackness. Before grief. Before the end of that life. I called just like I always did. Asked him about his day, how qualifying went, how he felt about the car. Maybe we spoke about something quite mundane that I wouldn’t remember eleven years later. Then I handed the phone to our little boy. His face lit up. He so loved his daddy. ‘Hello my daddy, you go fast in the racecars?  I did lots of unders in the pool today,’ he said excitedly. 

Our almost-three-year-old had just mastered the art of confidently being able to jump off the side of the pool and swim under water. And he was pretty darn proud of his efforts. He chatterboxed his way through a few more possibly indistinguishable sentences before signing off with ‘loveoo my daddy’ just as he did every day. Just like he’d done the night before. Just like we thought he’d do the night after…

It’s a rule in our family, no matter what, how you’re feeling, if you’re going away for a short time or a long while. Pissed off or happy as a lizard in the sun, you tell the person on the other end that you love them. Always. 

I don’t know what words were said on the other end of the phone that night and I know the 13 y o would so love with every bit of his heart to hear that last conversation, his dad’s Last Words one more time but I know what he said to his boy would almost certainly have been ‘I love you too, buddy’ because there was truly nothing he loved more. 

It would be a gift, one of the most treasured, to know but we don’t. We get no warning when those we love are ripped right out from our lives so suddenly, so tragically there is no time before, only after. 

Never am I reminded more of how important it is to love and to tell the people in your life how much you love them than this time of year. These three days – today, yesterday and the day before eleven years ago, I said those words so many times beside his hospital bed as he began to fade out of this world. 

Today my heart is heavy with the ache of loss. I know he misses him. We all miss him. We wish we could hear those Last Words again and again and again. If only. Fly high, most beautiful soul, Didley you will be in our hearts forevermore. Lov’n’ hugs Lady MamaG xox. 

It’s our one job. To keep them safe from harm…

In June last year, tiny helpless six-month-old baby boy Chayse Dearing’s unresponsive body was found at a unit in Victoria. After smoking Ice that morning with her partner, Dwayne Lindsay, Chayce’s mother, Michelle, had gone out shopping, leaving her baby in the care of her partner of three months, the soulless monster and Ice addict who would then go on to mercilessly take his life later that day.

There had already been reports to child services of Chayse’s squalid living conditions and the drug use in the home some months before. But by the time Police were called to the unit where they found his tiny injured body and rushed him to hospital there was little that could be done to save him. The life support was turned off on his helpless little body two days later, bruising indicating he’d been possibly strangled, beaten had old injuries to his neck and genitalia and traces of Ice were found in his urine. His mother failed him. The one person who was meant to keep this beautiful baby boy safe from harm, stood back and did nothing.

A couple of weeks back I was sitting in Dr Babies waiting room next to a lovely woman and we soon started talking about what had brought us both there. We each had stories from the battlefields – as is the case with infertility, us girls, we band together and share our battle scars often so deep and painful and ongoing, so we know we’re not alone. She was a bright and bubbly lass (though I suspect that to be a front disguising her deep-seated pain hidden beneath…I know it all too well myself).

She’d just been hooked up to an intralipid IV and was awaiting the transfer of her 14th IVF cycle. She’d been through the wringer this girl, like bad. After initially starting her path into artificial reproduction at 30, she’d first used her own eggs and her husband’s collection. Somewhere along the line she’d had a few pregnancies but lost them fairly early on.

Five years into it, they discover her husband has testicular cancer which cruelly rules him out as a contributor to their hope of a family.

Soon it became clear using her own eggs wasn’t an option either. ‘Soul sisters,’ I tell her. ‘Me too’. You can learn about a person inside 15 minutes if you just give them a gentle ear to listen. She went on to have various rounds of IVF – using donor embryos – but all had failed too.

Though I’ve no idea how, she brightly tells me ‘that’s just all part of it, hey. You do what you have to do.’ Over the past two years this incredibly generous woman and her husband have also been permanent carers to three foster children from an abused home situation. ‘They call me mum but they still refer to their birth mother as their ‘real mum’,’ she says. I bristle. These kids – all under five – still see their birth parents, despite the fact they’d been abused in their care – regularly every week, due to government laws.

‘They’re good kids,’ she says but they have social issues stemming from their upbringing. ‘We try our best with them and are hoping for permanent placement. I see them as my own kids’.  It must be hella hard on her facing the emotional demands of fertility treatment as well as raising someone else’s kids and all the while lodging with the courts for a permanent safe and healthy home for them to grow up in. This chick is a circus qualified juggler with all she’s trying to balance.

‘It’s like a ready made family, so if this all doesn’t work out, we’re lucky we have these kids in our life,’. And they too are lucky for angels like yourselves who pick up the broken pieces of our society and help put them back together.

The cannula from her arm begins slowly feeding the intralipids through and she nervously awaits her transfer upstairs in a few hours time. It’s her last ditch, she tells me. No more options after this, the proverbial tank has run empty.

We talk for what seems like hours but really is only minutes learning about each other’s losses and all the different shit we’ve tried – from fertility yoga to naturopathy, acupuncture and natural remedies. We’ve both been enticed, in our vulnerability, into every single con that’s professed to ‘heal our infertile useless bodies and still ended up right the fuck back where we started, though with considerably less coins jangling in our pockets.

We laugh about how many world trips we could’ve gone on, or the sports cars we could’ve bought with all the gazillions of dosh we’ve dumped into our plight. She tells me their journey that spans a decade has had the odd break.  ‘At one stage we took a year off and just travelled, tried to attempt a normal life again. Took the elusive break everyone says you should so you’ll just fall pregnant without thinking about it…But it didn’t take long for us to come back and kept trying.’

At 39, younger than me, never having had the gift of her own kids this woman is a battler like none I’ve ever met.

We’ve been talking so much neither of us has come up for air and my new fertility friend hasn’t noticed her phone ringing. ‘Shit, it’s the lab,’ she says looking at the missed call register on her phone. We both know there’s only one reason the lab would call before a transfer and it sure as shit ain’t to wish you happy fucking birthday.

I try and reassure her it could be anything, maybe they’re just checking you’re on time I say. But we both know that’s full of shit. Her husband has called too. It can’t be good news.

When she finally makes contact with the lab, cannula still hooked up to her arm, they deal her the cruel blow. The embryo didn’t survive the thaw process. Her last hope vanished into thin air. There will be no transfer it’s all been a wasted effort. Hope is gone. ‘Oh well, guess that’s it then, that’s me done,’ she says far too upbeat that I can’t help wonder if like me, she’ll get inside her car and just scream and lose her shit till the tears stop coming. ‘Now I can go home early,’ she says. But Despite her bubbly smile she will be feeling utterly crushed. ‘At least I have my three kids, let’s hope now we get to keep them forever.’

This is such a fucked up cruel destiny. For ten years she’s tried to realise her dreams but life can stand back and slap you right the fuck in the face. Unfair. Not even a word worthy of her pain but it is just all so bloody unfair.

I gently rub her arm and in a fleeting moment tell her, ‘please don’t give up…you deserve this, keep fighting, keep going. The world needs better parents like you.’ She smiles and makes her way towards the exit.

I’ll likely never cross paths with this mightily strong and kind soul again but I hope one day her wish comes true, in the meantime she’s doing her best to make a difference so there are less utterly tragic stories like that of Baby Chayce’s…may his tiny soul now be riding high with the angels… Lov’n’ hugs Lady Mama G xox

a million gazillion…

‘How much do you really want this…like how much of you wants this to happen?’ That’s what some chick dared tread very boldly on shaky ground to ask me the other day. Well I don’t know, you know the stuff that goes in your gob and fills up your lungs, what’s it called again…air, yep, that’s it. Well think about how much you need that and you should have your answer. Or thereabouts. What the fuck? Is she kidding?! Is she actually the holly-mother-of-god bloody well kidding? How much do I want this…I don’t think it’s possible to ask a more fuckass question, nope it really isn’t.

How much do I want to be sitting here in a day hospital with a harpoon-sized needle hanging from my arm feeding me shitty synthetic soy intralipds for the next four hours. For the fourtneeth time. Not all that much thank you please.  And I dear say, neither do the other five women in for the exact same reason as me, all of us hooked up to IV’s, liquid dripping through our veins like something out of Mad Max’s breeding programme.

How much do I want this….

Okay so let’s go right back to the beginning. Long ago, oh so long ago, I met this super good-looking, super-kind, super-smart and super-funny rooster and I thought, ‘yep, I’ll keep him for myself’. Childbirth, or even my reproductive system couldn’t have been further from my mind at that very point…though I may have secretly suspected he would breed some very high quality genetics. Back then, my eggs might’ve been a darn sight healthier than they are now and my body as a whole, less unaffected by the fourteen hundred-odd needles full of hormones among other things, invading it over the coming years.

After what can only be described as the most. incredible. day. ever. (sorry Kimmy, but my day shit all over yours and I’m still with my bloke) that was our joining of souls a couple of years later, followed by the ceremonious binning of my birth control stash the very next day…it was game the fuck on, sista. Hello ovaries in there, time to wake up from your long-term slumber and do your best. Strap on your rollerblades and spit out eggs like torpedoes, girls.

Hello, hello, wake up give me some of that good shit i know you’ve got in there. You’ve done it before and hit the jackpot. You can so do it again. Get in now and we’ll throw in a set of steak knives absolutely free. But yeah, nah. Ovaries, womb and general girlie bits decided around this time to turn on me like a disgruntled Bachelor contestant and have continued to do so for the past sixty months…ain’t nobody getting a rose in here.

Which is why I’m sitting in an orange vinyl chair, tears streaming down my cheeks, waiting for the last 100ml to slowly drip through, cold as fuck and desperate for a pee but holding on so I don’t have to wheel my drip into the loo with me and awkwardly park myself on the throne one-handed, careful not to step on the plastic cord and rip out the canula that’s taped to my inner arm. Because yes I want this. Yes, I’m willing to go through hell and back trying everything womanly possible and then some. Dr Babies made a brief appearance to insert my needle (thank the fucking lord cos my veins have all but collapsed) before telling me he’ll see me in the morning. ‘Yep, here’s to hoping these lil fighters are the ones,’ I tell him and very likely, myself too.

Five years ago I married the man I wanted to be in mine and the 13 y o’s lives forever. His heart – generous and kind to a fault, his compassion and empathy to want to help and to heal all he encounters, his ability to keep going day-after-day when he’s more worn out than a brothel’s washer and still be by my side with a hug and a smile, is absolutely every reason why I keep coming back for more. Every fucking reason.

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my boys…right back at the start

But me too. I want it. The 13 y o wants it. Even the gorgeous golden supermutt wants it.

And sometimes I’m not as strong as I want to be. But fuck it you go back for more and more and more and more until you get what it is you’ve been hoping for all this time. So we’re putting two in…if we get so lucky as to have two lil’ frosties safely come out of the fridge and hatch their way into the petrie dish that is, they’ll both go in.

Eleven days from tomorrow.

This time next year, there is nothing I want more than to be holding a teeny little human, our baby. More than the air in my lungs. More than all the tea in China. More than every single thought that’s occupied my headspace since that day five years ago. How much, you say? More than everything and then a bit more…lov’n’hugs, Lady MamaG xox

 

 

 

 

 

Ever heard of facon? Nope, me neither

As I sit here drinking my velvet almond mylk hot chocolate (yes that is milk with a y) and a side of acai bowl – the contents of which I’m not certain I can even identify (and I ignorantly refuse to pronounce correctly because it will always be ak-kye to me) – to genuflect on my week gone by, I breathe a rather big sigh of relief. And not because I won’t be consuming any dairy this morning.

It’s highly possible I’ve turned into one of those fucktards who omits dairy from her diet in the name of ‘inner health and well-being’…well until tomorrow at least when I return to my wicked ways of indulging in dairy, gluten, sugar and actual real-life bacon.

Unbeknownst to me I’ve entered a non animal Bi-product eatery because I liked the look of it. Pardon me but what on god’s fucking earth is ‘facon’?! There are two things certain in life – death and nothing ever comes close to tasting as good as bacon. But nonetheless I attempt to suck it up and make like I belong here among all the other free-spirited yoga junkies sipping their vegan smoothies. Namaste to the almond latte lovers on my left who ironically look like they could hold together the cracks in the brick walls with the fillers pumped into their noggins. At least you’re not eating any animal bi-products, loves.

The reason I’ve come to this weirdly wonderful little possie is because I’m early for my acupuncture session so need to kill a bit of time after the madness that is our new school drop off. It’s been an entire week since I actually thought I’d vomit from nerves watching the 13 y o, school blazer fifty sizes too big because I refuse to buy a new one every year n’ all, walk through the gates of his new school. Fuck me I don’t even remember being that afraid for him when, as a giant schoolbag with a teeny pair of feet and hat sticking out beneath, my boy started his first day of prep.

Starting a new school, halfway through the year when you know a grand total of three other kids and you’ve spent your entire prior schooling at the one place, has to be right up there with delivering an inauguration speech naked on the fear level scale. But bless the champ, he strapped his new bag to his back, flicked his stiff new akubra on his head and darted off toward the grounds (that look just like a scene out of Harry Potter) without so much as a look back. Off he goes. Not a care in the world.


Proud much? Hells to the motherfucken yes I was and and still am, just quietly. A few hours after drop off, my nerves getting the better of me, I text to ask how his first day was going. The response not indifferent to any typical of my 13 y o, a simple one-word reply but enough to settle what was fast turning into a severe case of neurotic mother syndrome. ‘Awesome’. That’ll do me thank-you-please.

Over the past week he’s gained a few new mates, picked up a spot on the basketball team, scored a great mark on his first assignment and slotted right into his new school as though he’s been there since the beginning. Every day now, he’s happy about something and as a mum that’s all you really ask for. I’ve got my boy back, unscathed. And shit it feels good.  

The kid’s resilience is nothing short of fucking stupendous. He’s faced some pretty hard shit storms in his life, been dealt a fair share of heavy blows but he picks himself up and plants the smile right back on his face. As if you didn’t know already but boy, you make my heart sing like Julie Andrews how darn proud I am of the wonderful small human you are. It’s my job to look out for you and sometimes I worry so much I think I can feel the wrinkles come out in my face but even though there’s haters who will try and break you down, destroy your spirit, always know there only needs to be room in your heart for the good.

My vegan hot chocolate – which I’m not gonna lie, actually tastes a shittonne better than it sounds – has come to an end so I thank my tattooed hipster waiter and head for the door, quietly fairy clapping myself for joining the ‘movement’. My needle lady, also a non-dairy consumer tells me I look thin and drawn out. Must be the vegan shit I just ate, I tell her. No you’re just very stressed you need to relax and not worry she says. Hmmm, I silently eye-roll to myself, yeah sure.

We agree to boil up some more of her ‘compost herbs’ of which I must dutifully take daily (but very rarely do) in the form of dirt-coloured tea for the purpose of diminishing the stress in my life. Good luck with that.

We are just about to embark on our 14th – yes Ma peoples’ fourteen – round over the next few days and something in me says I have to keep going even though my resilience has all but faded into non-existence. We’re back to the choices of medicated or non-medicated round. One embryo or two embryo transfers. Do we start now or hold off until the stress dies down? Who the fuck we kidding that ain’t never gonna happen. They’re decisions we can never know will actually make one blind bit of differenc but we still have to believe one day, might.

So I must be the little engine that could. Take some of my own advice I seem to dish out but not always be able to follow. Get up and try again, not be scared, keep climbing and maybe one day I’ll eventually make it to the top, well I sure as fuck hope so. Lov, luck n’ wonder, Lady Mama G xox

Day 1825 of waiting…

Fuck I love it when people have opinions. Especially ill-informed ones. I happened upon one the other week while recovering from an umpteenth surgery to fix my ever depleting shitful fertility which has now left me with three handy little holes in my abdomen – should they be required for three point-chain accessory at any stage. Unfortunately I’m the girl who tends to vomit like the kid from Poltergeist on waking from a GA which is why the anesthetist should’ve remembered to give me some of that really good shit to stop me hurling ma’ guts up every five minutes. Not only was I discharged clutching my little white fold-up vom-filled plastic sleeve like Queenie’s handbag but for the following 18 hours, could. not. even. hold. down. water. Fun times specially coupled with having your insides flipped around, flushed, stripped out and cut away.

But I digress…our focus here was on a thread I found (between my cursory chucks) on one of the (possibly far too many) fertility groups I follow where a bolshy young upstart who couldn’t have been more than 22, took it upon herself to declare to its followers they should all be adopting and fostering, fertility and IVF is not a right, that they needn’t be defined by motherhood, nor should they carelessly be adding to an overcrowded population by haphazardly injecting their wombs with countless embryos they’ve ‘bought’. Blessed be the thoughts of the ignorant. Whaaaat? Girl, you be a brave lil poptart. Floods of  fury erupted in the replies as they started to spread like a western bushfire threatening to put her right back in the little glass house she crawled out from. These are women you do not fuck with.

I’m sure there are plenty who might themselves wonder why the fuck someone like me would expose her body, mind and every inch of her soul into the abyss of fertility treatment…lemme shine a little light. While adoption would certainly be an option – though a highly unviable one given the amount of children adopted in Australia each year falls below 200, a 75% decrease over the past 25 years – there are two things preventing me from doing this. One is the law (incredulously) states there must not be more than a 39-year age gap between mother and baby. Oops that’s me out, sista. The second reason why I can’t just ‘go and adopt myself a kid like you see in the gossip mags’ is you cannot be undertaking fertility treatment and also actively pursuing adoption. Sorry kiddo but it’s one or the other. And sadly for us, bringing home a baby in a muslin sling after a visit to Cambodia, Malawe or Thailand certainly doesn’t work quite the way you might think. Not unless your name rhymes with Pangelina Solie.

You name it, I’ve got it, honey. Low egg count, low egg quality, endometriosis, blocked pipes, high NK cells, and coupled with motility issues, we are basically what you’d call well, shall we say completely fucked fertility-wise. We need all the help god – and Dr Babies – can send. Which is why I went in for another laparoscopy to remove the creepy noxious weed endo spreading its nasty self across my uterus, as well as a hysteroscopy, curette and flushout of the pipes – a full panelbeating before our last-ditch attempt at our final pair of frosties who are waiting ever so patiently in the freezer to meet their mama n’ daddy.

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Sadly, nothing is as simple as a choice when it comes to fertility. Those of us on this ride have already been through every possible tangent you could think of. Including sleeping with a fertility stone blessed by the ancient monks of Nepal wedged under my mattress. And that’s exactly why opinions like why someone would undertake fertility treatment in the first place burns like a motherfuckering hot poker. It isn’t because we ‘put other things first’, nor is it because we’d like to ‘plan when our baby comes’ like an online shopping order. IVF is an absolute last resort for anyone. Full. Fucking. Stop. It isn’t a process any of us wish to go through.

Having now been a card-carrying member of the infertiles for over 1825 tedious ass-shitting days, having spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying every different kind of way a hundred times over to make my body go back to how it was, having lost all hope for what keeps the very evolution of the world going. Losing our only glimmer of hope at just 7.5 weeks. And then being helpless as our dreams get sucked away in a vacuum of pain. Having my body and my very existence overpowered by 3462 needles, fucked up levels of hormones and steroids pumped into my body and emotions I didn’t even imagine possible. Thirteen attempts on a high-speed rollercoaster with no breaks. Dealing with the enormity of loss upon loss upon loss upon loss. And quietly yet reluctantly pocketing a grief no one else unless they’ve been there themselves, could ever begin to comprehend.

Nope you have absolutely no idea which is exactly why my reply to what you think girls like me should be doing didn’t come in the form of venom – though what you wrote infuriated the living shit out of me. It is merely a hope if and when you reach the crossroads of motherhood in years to come…you not be afflicted by the absolute curse that is infertility. It is not a fucking choice. It is not an option. It is our only hope. And one that keeps on being taken time after time. Sucking you in with a tiny bit more only to snatch it back off you in a hit and run two weeks later.

Every month of my life over the past five years has been methodically split into two week blocks – the first spent dreaming of implantation ‘twitches’ and possible onset of nausea. The second waiting for the day to come when we can start all over again. I literally live in fortnightly episodes that even if I wanted to, I can’t escape from. No lovie, it ain’t no way to live and yes, yes, you’re right I don’t need to be defined by motherhood but if you have a want for something so deeply embedded in your heart…if you’ve so often dreamed of your little soul, smelled him even, seen her giggle. Fought so hard to keep yourself from falling into the fucking pit of depression that keeps on appearing at your feet at the end of each month. If you’ve ever questioned what the fuck you did in a past life to keep getting dealt so much disappointment…maybe you might understand.

Nothing about IVF is a choice. You get all those taken off you the minute you find out you can’t do things yourself anymore.

Maybe find someone else to pick on…cos we sure as fuck do enough of that to ourselves…love n’ hopeful hugs to all ma’ girls out there who know what 264 hours feels like, Lady MamaG xox

Wtf did I ever do before…?

Thirteen mother’s days. No actually more like 4745 of them. Before I turned into a master finder of all things lost. Before I turned into a chef, a knower of all things Wiggles, a Lego master builder and nerf bullet dodger. Before I became a Viewer specialist of Nemo, then Cars, then Toy Story…all the way to Madagascar and beyond. 

Before I turned doctor, nurse, diet expert and teacher. Before I turned insomniac and stealth listener. Before I turned psychologist and maker of all things right. Before I turned cycling expert, advanced transformer repairer and costume designer. 

Before I turned storyteller, imagination consultant and mindful creativity enthusiast. Before I turned cross country marathon running spectator guide, goal specialist and singular cheerleading squad…before I turned NBL league researcher, Jacque Cousteau level oceanologist and mechanical expert to rival a Top Gear producer. Before I heard my name called three hundred gazillion and forty two times a day…before all of that plus a shit tonne more…what did I do? No, honestly what. The. Fuck. Did. I do?

Are you nodding your head knowingly? Yeah cos Today might be Mother’s Day butas mums be well aware, so is every other day. 

Before I knew my name would become the second most used word in the English language I might have relished the time I could take a pee in peace without having to find a missing item of school uniform at sparrow’s fart on a weekday morning. I might very well have enjoyed eating whatever I wanted at a time closer to midnight than mid afternoon. I could even have skipped round the supermarket flinging things in my trolley like tofu, anchovies, Camembert and fois grad with gay abandon laughing to myself at my freedom of food choices. Not even a what is that to be heard. I might have slept acrossways in my bed kicking left and right whenever I felt like it. And taking all the pillows. 

Yep. Probably. I could have done all those things. And more. I really don’t know. Because I don’t remember. Who of us ever could? My life before I got this job all but deleted from my memory files…the least paid, most demanding, most heartbreaking, most terrifying, at times even frustrating… yet utterly most rewarding and prideful gig a girl could ever ask for. I have no idea. Time before motherhood has stood still, eclipsed by the enormity of the role I now hold so dear and have done my best to keep these past thirteen years. 

Dunno if I’m good at it. That’s the thing with this job there ain’t no handbook, no meeting with the board to discuss your progress just a blindfold and a hand grenade then you’re set off into the mummyhood wilderness. All alone, carefully negotiating the track so as not to detonate. 

I’m pretty sure I was told it’d get easier but I think they were full of shit. Or they’d never heard of teenagers. Just like when they said the sleep loss would eventually make way for sleep ins. There are some in our household copping a lazy Sunday morning only trouble is it’s not this someone. Even when the lights go out my mind is up late working in the moonlight, worrying, worrying.  

Having now spent a good half a decade trying to convince my body it really truly does have the capability to produce another of these somewhat demanding, yet a whole lot incredible miracles I wouldn’t trade a single second of it. Not a one. Every day has brought a little bit more sunshine into our world I never thought possible. From the times I’d pick up a giggling toddler from his cot to hugs that now squeeze my shoulders in tight…to being told I’m the best mum in the world is praise enough. Even if it is before his request for a fourteenth set of new kicks. 

Just to be given the chance to do it all over again even just once would make my heart even more full than it already is. And oh please oh please Genie, today more than any other I’m asking this one wish…

I’m totally Celebrating the mini human I part created and maybe just one day real soon, might be given another super creature to cherish and you betcha little ass I’m chuffed. Happy Mums Day to the already’s, the passed over’s and the hope-to-be Mama’s out there. Lov’n’hugs always, Lady Mama G xoxo

If you despise holiday braggers, look away now…

I warn you beforehand I can’t help it but I’m gonna be one of those fuckwits who blats on about how damn amazing her holiday is, while the rest of you mere mortals wipe snot from your face slothing it, lost in a haze of soup steam, thick wooly socks and far too many layers of grey…as I sit here writing this lounging on the edge of a cliff somewhere on an island, waves crashing below me while I adjust my bikini out of my butt crack and my waiter, and friend for the day, with a huge big smile brings me a concoction of I don’t know what but it’s pink, fizzy and has flowers dangling from it. Ahh the bliss. Didn’t hate me before? You sure as shit do now. But wank on I shall for this holiday is healing all in itself. 

Having come in from what could only be described as a massage delivered by the gods themselves, hot stones have slowly worked out the months of toxins and stress that’ve been dwelling in my system for far too long. The temperature sits somewhere between 28-31 I really don’t know the precise ambient degree because my ability to convert Fahrenheit to C is about as good as pounds to kilo’s – for the love of god can we not share a common fucken measuring system?!

Today’s activities, much like yesterday’s and likely similar to tomorrow’s, will include immersing myself in the Pacific Ocean, eating far too many taro chips (that shit be so good) sampling the prettiest drinks from the cocktail menu, throwing back a lemongrass beer in between  (medicinal purposes of course) eating my way through an entire menu and afternoon tanelaxation seminars before I head back to the mainland for a little economy research in Neiman Marcus. Yeah, that shit be good. 

As I bake uneven tan lines into my skin due to the fact there’s signs requesting you keep your regions covered at all times (nah not really but there’s way too much public ruining my peaceful to completely relax, tits n’all) my boys are off on a fishing trip that cost more than our entire week’s hotel bill but the 13 y o insisted, nay begged, nay pestered the living daylights out of us to go on.

Nothing will dampen the kid’s spirits or his intentions to hook a giant Mahi mahi even though the weather is a little blustery. The Vet, god bless him, who’s been referred to almost daily by my late husband’s surname (because I booked it and a name change once was enough for me…lay off, doesn’t mean I love him any less but I’ve grown too attached to this one to let it go) plus it’s easier to spell, doesn’t blink an eyelid…has packed up our boy and headed off on their first international fishing trip. Given the conditions AND the fact The Vet sees fishing a bit like I do bikini waxing – a necessary but painful thing you have to do – because god love him he sees little point in uneccessarily killing fish. Animal lover through and through. 

Yeah I thought I was an animal lover too before I met him. But honest to god once you’ve seen what goes on in his every day life, once you’ve watched your staff spend an hour trying mercilessly to remove a deceased pup from a mother the owner ‘didn’t even know was pregnant’ yet had been painfully labouring for over 24 hours, to then be told the by the owner to euthanise their one-year-dog and you have no option but to pay for it, that’s when you know you’re an animal lover. When you can’t bare to see them in pain day in, day out. I so often wonder how he gets all the grief out day after day. It must seep deep deep under his skin…

But fishing they are. Because that’s who he is. Out all day while I sit here tanning my butt cheeks, somewhat unevenly. There’s every possibility he would have had his ear entirely chewed off by the time they return wary and sunburnt, telling tales of how they ‘nearly snagged the biggest fish you’ve ever seen’…our 13 y o has little time to come up for air when there’s fishing stories to be told and every detail – minute as it may be – must be told. At length. Sometimes twice. Especially if he thinks you might not have been listening. 

I love that the two of them are off without me. Not cos I don’t share their love, or lack the thereof of fishing (no, wipe that actually I’d rather tear my toenails off) but because I love them spending time together, generally shooting the shit and being lads. We’ve now reached that point where my baby, he don’t wanna share his thoughts with me no more. He insists it’s a boys thing. And I’m cool with that. Now it’s time for The Vet to take the wheel and the boy couldn’t be under better guidance, he’s way calmer, practical and less likely to lose his shit than I am anyway. 

The three if us be happy lil clams in the sunshine. I really must wank on about how amazing this holiday shit is because we get to do it but once a year, if we’re lucky. The fact his adoring clients think the world may end if he’s away any longer means short’n’sweet with barely enough time to unpack your 432 bikinis before it’s time to rinse the sand out of your  nether regions and head for the hills. Back to work, to reality, to surgery, to strapping a giant fucking jet pack of brave to my back and getting ready to face it all again. 

Perhaps this dose of healing will do us all a bit of good. 

Ps: I’ll keep you posted on the day’s catch…so we can all share in the delight. The long, long, long delight…

Mahalo from the wanky-and-damn-proud-of-it Lady MamaG on tour xoxo