At some point, it became clear that Mr. Right was a no-show. I had waited, gone on dates, registered on dating sites. I had been patient. I had also been busy with life, mainly a doctoral dissertation and the rather precarious life of a new postdoctoral fellow. It felt like my life had been on hold for years: what was the point of setting roots, I thought, since I didn’t know where work would lead me? I lived in a small and, let’s be honest, rather dingy apartment. I had a few good friends, and pals with whom I hung out at book launch and conferences. But I had no real life.

I was waiting for life to begin. I was waiting for THE job, THE boyfriend, THE moment when all would fall into place. And in waiting, I was now nearing 37 years old. The dreaded over-the-hill effect of the biological clock ticking way too loudly.

I had no control over university hiring processes. I had no control over the fact that all the great men I met were already engaged elsewhere (and I wasn’t about to mess with that). But I could make a decision about what mattered the most to me: have a family.

So began what was called Plan B (for baby, of course) but also, according to a close one, Project Bilbo.

Having a child through the magic of reproductive assistance and fertility clinics is one strange experience. Exhilarating at times, disembodied at others. Fraught with stress and lonely happiness.

It’s also a silent adventure, no matter how much you discuss it with your loved ones. And I apparently talked of nothing else for a while. But I was still alone, at night, with all the big decisions: sperm donor, tests, pee on a stick, etc. This blog is an attempt at breaking that silence. And an overture. Because I gave birth to a wonderful little boy. And… Well, the rest is yet to come.