maybe baby: between a rock and a hard place

The past couple of months have been a bit rough … physically and emotionally. The weekend of Daddy’s Day I started experiencing some rockin’ pelvic pain — like leg-numbing, head-spinning pain. I thought my little ovarian cyster was back, but a UTI diagnosis, two cat scans and a sono later revealed that I didn’t have a cyst, but rather a stone — who-hoo.

Kidney stones, my friends — not purty.

When I was told by my urologist — who bares an uncanny attitude resemblance to the crazy OB/GYN in Knocked Up (I almost laughed out loud the first time we met) — that passing a stone is worse than squeezing out a baby sans epidural, I immediately signed up for the kidney stone master blaster. This noninvasive procedure uses sound waves to break apart the stone so that you can pass it in not-so-painful pieces. But, this in no way eliminates the gag factor, but I’ll spare ya’ those details (yay, you).



Anywhoo, turns out, the master blaster isn’t always 100% effective on the first shot … and, as luck would have it, it’s looking like I’m not so much a one-and-done kinda gal. My two-week follow-up showed that my stone was still hanging out and the doc gave me a two-month warning: “Pee It Out, Or I’m Coming In.” Oh, goody.



I have about 4 weeks left to get my rock rollin …

As much fun as this whole ordeal has been, it’s just the tip if the iceberg. It looks like the kidney stone may not have been the pain culprit after all, but rather just a fun little bonus. All signs are now pointing to endometriosis — a little insult to injury to someone who’s already battled infertility. Sigh.

The hubs and I have always said that this December we’d start working on baby No. 2. And though I blogged earlier this summer about some unexpected struggles with this decision, Chris and I both long to have another baby. I can’t even put it into words … I get huge crocodile tears just thinking of Coop holding his baby brother or sister … he would be such an amazing, loving brother (as long as we hide anything that can be used as a weapon).

Now that we’re committed to moving forward, I am absolutely terrified of going back … of diving head first into a sea of infertility issues, especially with this fun little female friend tagging along for the ride.

And because kidney stones and girl gunk aren’t enough for one post … there’s this minor little detail of potty training. We are all potty talk, all the time. And I hate it. I mean I love it, but I. hate. It.



I want Coop to be the big boy who uses the big boy potty and wears the big boy pants, but I also want to cling to his rapidly dwindling days of babyhood with every fiber of my being. Every day brings about change and growth and maturity and it’s exciting and beautiful and painful all at the same time.

This weekend, out of nowhere, Coop started saying, “I don’t want that.” I was floored. The day before all he’d mutter was “No” to voice his objections. And a mere 24 hours later he seemed so cognizant, so capable … so big.

He used the potty for the first time at school today (as opposed to simply sitting there, happily flushing clean water down the drain). So, we went to the store and got his first pack of pull-ups. I cried (such a sap). After bath time, Coop sat on his “thrown” (the hubs got him a music-playing potty complete with a crown on the lid), while I read the book he picked out — The Potty Train — specifically for moments like these. By the time the last “chugga chugga poooo pooo!” was read, Coop went pee pee and the potty sang out like royalty had just entered the room.

He looked at me and said, “I deed it.”



I never imagined that peeing could bring me so much pride. But, then again, I never imagined I could ever love someone the way I love that little “man” o’ mine.

It’ll be interesting to see what the next few weeks bring – with Coop making the potty sing, with me hoping I make a rock roll and with the three of us waiting to see if we’ll become four...