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