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.


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.


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


Today was meant to be transfer day. Two of our last little frosties, our hopefuls, our last shot, out of the freezer, through the tube of a catheter and straight into the baby caravan, romantic as it sounds and all. But, and it seems as though there’s a shit tonne of fucking but’s these days (and not of the cute squishy baby kind either) we won’t be.

No. Sorry, your defective self has once again proven to be unripe, Lady Mama G. Not ready. Not working right. So we’ve abandoned ship, jumped overboard mid-cycle and told the Captain to take the wheel before it hits the whopper of yet another disappointment. Another failure.

The reason, besides many, is that bitchface endo has reared her rather ugly head again. Interfering with not just any chance of our cycle working but giving the ever delightful side affect of making my gut swell up to the stage of a four-month pregnancy with a tiny knife-wielding ninja chopping away at my insides…which would be super cool if there were a lil peanut (less the ninja swords) hatching inside but there isn’t. And that just makes life shitful with the only reprieve to be found in the form of hot wheatie bags and curling up in the foetal position with a stash of rocky road (coincidentally, which features high on the list of must-not-haves when it comes to endometriosis but come on, fuck me solid, I can NOT do life without chocolate. It is my drug of choice).

I’m so glad we didn’t chance our lil’ Hugo & Evie and even made sure to call the lab this morning to triple check they didn’t start to defrost our embryos for no reason leaving us with nothing. Fortunately the scientist on the phone didn’t think I was an obsessive crazy nutbag and said it was a good idea to double check because a message with the office lady could easily get mislaid, yes you’re very right…okay maybe she thought I was a little bit OCD. No chances please.

I meet with Dr Babies to shoot the shit about the record number of embryo transfers done on one patient but mostly to find a solution. I already know what he’s going to say so I suggest it. ‘Another Laproscopy?’ I ask gingerly as though ordering another glass of French Rose. I promised myself no more going under. No more. My inner self is bitch-slapping me for even coming up with such nonsense but there is sweet fuck all other choice, Dorothy. Key hole surgery for the second time in five years to cut away all the nasty seaweed like growths aggressively attaching themselves to my innards really is the only option. General anesthetic number 10 it is…and I be booked in for a couple of weeks’ time.

Really and truly, this shit is starting to take it’s toll. The disappointment. The fact I’ve spent my entire marriage like this. What if? This time it’ll work. Let’s try this. How about this. Maybe this. It’ll work. It really will. Maybe this time. It’s okay. Keep going. One actual loss and 12 other attempts that didn’t even get as far as a loss. Two surgeries. Six hundred and eighty two mother fucking needles…can’t say we haven’t thrown every goddamn thing we can at this. And still it’s a maybe. Always a maybe. Ten per cent, fifty per cent, seventy-five even. But I’ve had a baby BEFORE fuck it all to hell, it has to work. Infertility weave your magic on my almost-gone-sanity.

I did find the sweetest thing the 13 y o wrote five years ago (thanks FB reposts) the day we were married. It’s called My Hero and a week before the wedding I asked him to write a little poem he could read out about what the day, and the fact The Vet was becoming his family, really meant to him. When he came up with was quite simply precious. When he read those words of pride, of worship, of how their unconditional bond exists because of love…I couldn’t have ever comprehended how much it meant to him, this becoming a family. He literally never left The Vet’s side…insisted we place a chair for him right between the groomsmen – where it turns out, he belonged.

The following day, we met in the hotel restaurant for breakfast and the then-eight-year-old who was staying with his Nan and Pop was on a happy high. It wasn’t just me and The Vet, it was the three of us, now. From when he skipped me down the aisle to reading out the most beautiful words only a tiny mind full of love could create. You couldn’t wipe the smile off any of our faces…but when we told him it would be just the two of us going on honeymoon…the kid lost it. Tears like I’ve never seen. Highs crashing down. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t coming with us, it was our day, he whimpered. ‘But I have to come, please I don’t want to leave you…I want to come too.’ Heart. Broken. I had to leave him behind in the breakfast hall, walk away blinking back my own tears and I know it only took a few minutes for him to feel better once we’d gone…but the lesson was love, not just blood, is what heals us, keeps us together, makes us family, keeps the sides from splitting.


Our family is made up of a whole lot of people, not just our relatives and not just the people still here on earth. He is lucky, I am lucky we have The Vet and five years as our little family even though it mightn’t have grown quite the way we wanted it to…we are still a family.

And shit, I wouldn’t change it for quids…

Love n’ hugs, Lady MamaG xox

Waiting…watching the clock 

There are 15,840 minutes in eleven days. I should know, I have counted every single fucken one of them.

This torturous wait has kept me holed up in my head, feeling each little twinge. Worrying over every teeny cramp. Angry. Sad. A little bit happy. No angry again. I’m not sure which one of the little fuckers is to blame – progesterone, progynova or prednisone – maybe it’s all three but they can each and every one of them, together with my hormones, bugger off and stop fucking with my head already.

A bit over 11 days ago was when our little journey of hope began. The 13th round. Lucky 13, I’m not sure how many rounds Muhhamad Ali went through in his world title fight but it’s starting to feel a bit as though I’m reliving his bout blow-by-blow. Once my intralipids are done I skip upstairs (yes literally, this is our ‘one’ it’s soooo gonna work this time happy happy joy joy) where Dr Babies is waiting for me in theatre. I lay back and slip my ankles into the stirrups and the scientist comes to tell me Hugo or Evie has indeed thawed beautifully and is waiting for his new lil home. Yesssss, lil embie, I have everything made up for you in there and even a little night light so you’re not afraid of the dark.

The catheter goes up you know where (or if you’d prefer not to, look away now) and Dr Babies guides it in using the ultrasound screen. Once he’s found the perfect hidey spot inside my uterus, he radios in for the scientist who appears from the lab holding the tube with our teeny incy lil embryo (smaller than a pinhead) inside and has already grown to a five-day-old blastocyst. She hands it over and Dr Babies carefully places him inside the catheter. Then, a bit like a pea shooter, embie is hurtled up through the catheter and comes up on the screen as the teensiest weeny white light in my baby caravan. Just like a star in the bare night sky. Oh I’m so wishing on you teeny star, wishing with all my might.

A few seconds later The scientist radios through to say the tube is empty. ‘All clear,’ she says. And we have liftoff, captain. One little embie safely onboard.

I lie back on the bed and insist on resting up for twenty minutes, even though I don’t really need to. You know, just to be sure. I’m not risking anything this time. So good. My mind’s already starting to high-five itself.

That’s the easy bit done and dusted. Yes, even the part where I have a giant cannula hanging from my arm for four hours. That ain’t nothin compared to what lies ahead.

Two weeks, or just shy of, hoping for a miracle…

My friend works out that IF it takes, this little miracle will arrive on the 13-year-old’s birthday. Oh what a double whammy if that’s not a sign more certain than a weeping Christ statue, I don’t know what is.

Softest baby blue with taupe accents for a Hugo nursery, dusky pink with soft French grey for an Evie.

Everyone is so excited. Messages flood in from our beautiful friends and family of hope and wonder, they make me tear up just a little bit. They all want this to work. We all want it to work. So so much riding on this lil’ frosty.

In two days it’ll be me and The Vet’s fifth wedding anniversary…and I couldn’t ask for a more precious teeny gift for him. The bloke who has truly kept me together like dried PVA glue these past five years. I can almost see our teeny Bub, giggling his same infectious cheeky laugh that makes me smile even when I feel like shit.

anniversary1Even the 13 y o thinks he has a brother in waiting and insists it will be the best baller, like, ever. 

The end of the road. Our time is finally here. Isn’t it? I mean it’s worked hasn’t it? Headaches, cramps, backache they’re all pregnancy symptoms too right? We have a super embryo in there, our lil Hugo, holding on for dear life digging his little ice pick into the wall on my ueterus…

Hope starts to slip from my grip. An emptiness begins to creep over me…. I’ll do two pee tests, praying like fuck for a second red line. As the liquid slips up the screen, filling the first window, it fails to eventuate into the second. And like that, my heart drops to the floor. Fuck it all to hell I can’t deal with this anymore. No. More. Pain. No. More. Loss. Please whoever higher being it is up there driving this crazy bus of disappointment, I want to get the fuck off.

My clinic says I’ll still have to do my blood tests even though I know there is sweet fuck all point to them. They don’t even call with the results.  No need. BFN. Bloody Fucken Nothing.

It would seem there was nothing lucky about 13 at all. Nothing…

Bye bye embie No. 13…we miss you already as you join the twelve other little hopefuls who just weren’t meant to be…

I don’t want to tell anyone. I’m so scared of disappointing them all. The Vet. My Angel. The boy. Our friends. Our family. So much hope. So much love. So much heartache.

After attempting to put my heart back together today, it’s time to pick myself up and get back in the saddle for the next round. Tomorrow I’ll go in for a endometrial scratching and a uterus biopsy (which clearly should be on all Spa Retreat menus) and we’ll start a natural round. No drugs this time. And I’m reminded how lucky I am. I still breathe. My boy is safe and happy. My Vet is the most beautiful human on the planet and despite the fact I sometimes wake screaming in the night that someone’s trying to kill me, he still loves the hell outta this girl.  And that’ll do me. Lov’n’ hugs from a slightly wounded Lady MamaG xox