Your parents lied to you. Babies don’t come from storks or from stardust or from god. They’re not found in the cabbage patch, and they don’t start as a twinkle in anyone’s eye. And they definitely don’t come from a magical, mystical process involving a man and a woman who are so very much in love that the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina and, voila, they make a baby.

This blog is about how babies are really made. I am writing this blog to debunk the cabbage-patch fib, and to start a much-needed discussion about queer fertility and solo parenting. I am writing this blog for all the queer single people like me who are doing it, or thinking of doing it, alone. I am writing this for all their family members who still hold onto a childhood fantasy that babies come from wishes or from one-night stands in a ute out the back of a pub, to the accompaniment of an AC/DC cover band. And I am writing this for all their friends, and for all my friends too, who think that IVF is a shortcut, and not a painful last resort.

I have been trying to get pregnant for the past three years, and my quest has not ended yet. According to the nurse at my local hospital I am both medically and socially infertile. Medically because I have PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome), and socially because I am queer. Add to that the fact that I am also single, and you’ve won the infertility stakes trifecta. So this blog is about my journey: it’s about sexuality and hot sex and queer fertility and IVF. All in the one breath. Say it out loud–it’s juxtaposed, but it also (almost) rhymes.

**To read the blog, click on “menu” tab hovering over the sexy picture of me at the top of this screen.

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