A Byron Bay babymoon

It turns out, first trimester tireds, starting a business and toddlers are a potent mix. It’s the middle of the wettest winter we’ve had in Sydney, and I desperately needed to escape to somewhere tropical to relax.

The thing about toddlers is they aren’t synonymous with ‘relax’. I love Lark dearly, and while the terrible twos weren’t all that terrible, Lark is fully embracing being an independent, rebellious threenager – three months early. At least I sincerely hope it’s early threenage years, because I’ve been told it gets a lot more headstrong at three.

So here we are, the glint in her eye all too familiar, when ‘don’t do that’ seems to be an invitation to give it a go. While maintaining steady eye contact, and sometimes saying with glee ‘I think abouuuut iiiiit!’. As she climbs onto the bench, tries to touch hot things, flips the furniture cushions to create water slides etc.

I found the most relaxing place I could – within a reasonable distance from Sydney – heading north to enjoy the sun in a place that offers relaxing tropical rainforest vibes and chilled locals. Byron Bay.

A mini-solo adventure for one tired, pregnant mama in need of morning yoga, rainforest walks, soaking in a bath, and reading a book from start to finish without someone sticking their fingers in her mouth.

Lark didn’t understand at first. I usually take her on the plane with me. She begged to go with me, and when I gently reassured her I’d be home in 3 sleeps and she’d have fun with Dada, she begged me to stay. It’s nice to be loved.

But it’s also nice to remember what it’s like to be a human who isn’t responsible for the emotional climate and logistics of a small family – for three nights only.

Back in the day Bella would be halfway to Sri Lanka by now. 8 weeks, multiple countries on the itinerary. The more unusual, the better.

But Mama Bella just wants to be able to go to the toilet on her own for three glorious days. To connect with herself and nature while she creates a relaxed environment to bond with her little man, the very much wanted, very welcome addition to the family due 28 January 2027.

That’s right, it finally happened.

After a marathon fertility journey that felt like I was sprinting uphill the entire 42 km, I received the good news.

You’re pregnant! [After the third egg collection, the third Asherman’s syndrome hysteroscopy, the sixth general anesthetic, and the third embryo transfer in 12 months].

Our miracle baby.

The thing that blows my mind is that with IVF, you can identify the gender of the embryo at just 5 days old, when it’s a bunch of multiplying cells that are biopsied and sent away for genetic testing (PGT-A). They’re looking at the chromosomes, and it turns out the Y chromosome is either present or absent at just 5 days past the egg-and-sperm fertilisation party in the lab.

Except they won’t tell you in Australia before pregnancy because people tend to gender shop. For me, boy or girl, I don’t care. As long as they’re happy and healthy.

We’re in week 11 now, and my morning sickness has come and gone in waves. Unlike with Lark, where I craved beef cheeseburgers and 17 tubs of ice cream, I’m craving French onion dip and Macca’s chicken ‘n’ cheese burgers.

I’m wondering if this is a good sign for the placenta placement, which previously attached over an open blood vessel and held on tight. Lark drained the iron out of my body like a thirsty thousand-year-old vampire draining a lifetime of victims, resulting in not one but two iron transfusions during pregnancy.

Then another iron transfusion after a sticky placenta resulted in hemorrhaging as it came out in chunks – emergency surgical removal was the life-saving surgery I needed at the time. But, as long-time readers know, the surgeon missed a chunk of placenta, and the following D&C and infection resulted in stage 3 Asherman’s Syndrome.

Why this detail is important is that the scarring has now pushed me into the high-risk pregnancy category, where the placenta can grow too far into the wall of the uterus. Considering sticky placenta already happened once, to a lesser degree when my uterus wasn’t scarred AT ALL, I’m feeling pretty nervous about the news delivered by my IVF doctor.

The threshold for surgery is much lower for you now. If the placenta isn’t delivered within 15 minutes, you’ll need surgery to remove it. If it has implanted too deeply into the uterine wall – a risk with Asherman’s Syndrome – you will need a hysterectomy [to save your life].

Great.

I mean, I’ll do whatever is necessary to make sure Lark and her baby brother have a mother to love, care for, and raise them.

But also, yikes.

With this impending risk looming over my head, a trip away to relax and get my mind off everything is needed more than ever.

And so I packed a backpack full of essential resort wear the night before and woke up at exactly 4:44am (good morning to you too, Grandma and Aunty Joyce), and a tired RaRa and Lark drove me to the airport, where we exchanged huge hugs and a pink lollipop to sweeten the departure deal.

This time, the window seat wasn’t a toddler containment strategy. It was a luxurious setting as I flew into the orange hues peeking over the sea's horizon, before sailing north along the brilliant white cloudtops.

My first solo holiday since Lark was born.

All I want to do is have some fun. You and me both, Sheryl.

And I’m here for it.

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