Saturday, 10 March 2012


‘Let’s throw a kids party’.
We were recovering from yet another fun filled, busy weekend. The Youth Charity Concert I helped to organise with the youth of our church had been a roaring success. But, as ever, my mind was looking for the next project. Feet exhausted from wearing fashion statement shoes, hubby desperately trying to catch up on the work my latest venture had distracted him from, this was hardly the time to start discussing the next big thing.
We’ve been married 4 exciting years. We’ve had our bumps in the road but no bumps in the belly. It seems as though from DAY 001 of Mr & Mrs’dom, there have been Baby Watch Patrollers, positioned at every public and private event, armed with enough questions to put CSI, FBI, Scotland Yard and the MET to shame. If you yawn or appear slightly under the weather, the Baby Watch Patrollers raise their eyebrow at a 45 degree angle; their lips are poised ready to ask,
‘Could it be?’
‘You just need to relax’, ‘Are you taking your folic acid?’, ‘What about the ovulation tests’... Oh that’s right! I forgot you graduated with honours from the school of medical science. At first it used to make me smile and I would kindly say ‘no’. As the months grew into years, the smile was flattened to a frown. My answers became less kind and more defensive. I would dodge all Baby Patrollers, all discussions of babies and busy myself in all kinds of activities.
The problem is my busyness is a tool. I often feel that if I stop, just for one minute, I’ll be forced to feel all that I don’t want to. I’ll just stop in the middle of this spinning earth and get consumed with the reality of my emotions.
Let me fill you in…
A short while ago, we attended our very first fertility specialist appointment. The journey to get there had been a long and sometimes misguided one. Google is great – very informative but, when it comes to making babies I have concluded that it can be totally useless. There are many ‘get pregnant fast’ schemes, fooling you into believing that there is some kind of universal trick to making your belly swell. The truth is it’s just Gods unexplainable celestial biology – a miracle. We as humans are just catching up to his science. He alone has graduated from gynaecology with the first of all first classes and we are in science class at primary school, writing out the learning objective. A view that our gynaecologist shared,
‘What we do here is not rocket science. All we need is one sperm, one egg and a place for them to meet’.
His humour and thick foreign accent (can’t quite figure out where he is from yet) was so soothing. He didn’t speak as if we were the reduced stock at the back of Tesco’s. His 25 years of baby creating experience, spoke volumes and we were instantly at peace. We’d found a doctor with a heart and not just a fancy title. Trust and believe that finding a decent doctor these days is as rare as finding a Torie politician supporting mass immigration. We have had doctors declaring things about my womb, one who made more eye contact with the laptop than with me and one who talked as though he’d been picked out of the kidadulthood move – yeah bruv?! So this, this was a major breakthrough.
Naturally, this called for a celebratory lunch with hubby. We had a clear plan outlined. We knew what steps we had to take and it felt great. Our TTC (slang for ‘trying to conceive’, lingo I’ve picked up on my googling missions) journey was getting closer to the goal. But, somehow on the journey home, the reality of it all started to play tricks with my mind. The good old fashioned ‘why’ game had come back with vengeance featuring me as the contestant and if I wasn’t careful, I was going to win a trip to ‘self pity’ lane.
‘Ok…honey, I thought the plan was to invite just three. Since when did it become a troop?’
I know my hubby couldn’t tell all that had been processed in my mind between my announcement and his question but, for me this kiddie party was just what we needed. Somehow, in the middle of my ‘why’ game, I had concluded that our TTC journey didn’t have to mean the absence of children. It didn’t just have to be a time of complicated ovulation tests and intrusive temperature gauges. Just because we don’t have our children yet, didn’t mean we didn’t have any children. We’ve named our children, have their first outfits bought and even started to map out their lives, yes, even their careers. We are just waiting for their arrival. We also have a whole brood of adopted children that we can borrow from time to time.
So I decided and my hubby lovingly went along with my crazy idea, to throw a party with all our future children’s big sisters and brothers. We had the works; musical statues with delighted winners and sore losers, mesmerised children chasing after balloons, awkwardly passionate dance steps, formula one races for the toilet, home made cake and party bags filled with all the toys parents love to hate. Even though, the day before I had a run in with the worlds worst GP, we decided to celebrate irrespective and pictured our mini me’s celebrating with us.