At one stage in my late 20s and early 30s, I thought I was never going to be a mother. I suffered multiple miscarriages thanks to an undiagnosed thyroid problem. My heart broke into millions of pieces every time I bled during my first trimesters.
So it was with unmitigated joy that I finally became a mum to Harry (now six) at 35, followed by Bertie (now four) just under two years later.
I’m by no means a model mum; I drop the odd clanger around the boys, I don’t bake birthday cakes and I’ve never done canteen duty. That said, Harry is my pride and Bertie is my joy. I love wrestling, bushwalking and reading with them. I encourage their interests and regularly take them to the zoo, museum, fishing, whatever takes their fancy.
They are growing to be fine young men, and, despite their unconventional upbringing, both boys are kind, thoughtful, funny and smart.
No matter how down or overwhelmed I have been in the last six years, my love for my sons is always the catalyst for me getting back on track.
From the moment I first kissed Harry’s downy little head when he was placed in my arms, right up to this morning when I attempted to teach Bertie to tie his shoelaces (apparently double bunny ears is the wrong way to do it) it has pained me to think of all those women who desperately want a child being failed by their own biology.