Jo Stanley: "When we decided it was time for a sibling for Willow, I went straight for the pond scum." Photo: Mike Baker

I have had some surreal moments in my career as a minor player in the media world. Moments where I've found myself thinking, "Huh, never would have predicted that."

Like the time I stumbled across Justin Bieber's then girlfriend, Selena Gomez, crouching next to my dirty family wagon in our work car park, hiding from some fans who had made it past security. Or maybe she was hiding from Bieber. That would be more understandable.

Or when Dr Andrew Rochford, the hot doctor on The Project, challenged my belief in alternative medicine live on national television. He was doing his job and I was doing mine. Healthy debate is the backbone of shows like that. But so is pace, which meant I got all flustered and my argument sounded neither convincing nor informed, especially in the shadow of the good doctor's impressive scientific knowledge. He quoted stats and studies, I quoted him that "Magic Happens" bumper sticker.

My problem was that, in all honesty, I had no proof for my belief in the alternative medicine I was defending.

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I have regularly attended a traditional Chinese medicine clinic for many years. I see a lovely man who takes my pulse on both wrists, asks to see my tongue, questions me on things I wouldn't share with my husband and then sends me away with neatly wrapped brown paper packages of what I can only describe as twigs, bark, seeds and dirt, to brew up into a foul-tasting tea that could, in fact, be pond scum.

Don't ask me how any of it works. Generally I just nod politely through any talk of liver qi or strengthening my wei qi, and then I start daydreaming about yum cha. After my last appointment I came away with only the knowledge that if I had a band I'd call it Kidney Yin Deficiency.

But I first took the leap of faith because I couldn't get pregnant. It was on the recommendation of a woman who seemed to have a new baby every time I saw her. (I began to wonder if she was hiring them just to irritate me).

Admittedly, in the gullibility stakes, I was ripe for the picking. After three years of infertility, I would have tried anything. If someone had said to me they'd stood on their head naked on the steps of the Opera House and that seemed to work, I'd have booked my ticket to Sydney that very day.

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Jo Stanley