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...

maybe baby: make room for more?

Last year the hubs and I agreed that we’d start “working” on munchkin No. 2 this December. It sounded like a good plan …if things “worked out,” Coop would be sporting his “big brother” tee by the time he hit 3 years and some change.

But, of course, this was before we bought a house. Before I started ramping up my freelance work (in addition to the full-time job). Before we fell head over heels in love with us, The Three Musketeers …

Chris and I were enraptured with our baby boy the minute we found out we were pregnant. But only as Coop’s gotten older have we settled into this totally rockin’ rhythm that makes us both wonder how we could ever hope to improve on this kind of perfection.

The other night, as Coop lay sandwiched between Chris and I for a pre-bedtime viewing of Wonder Pets, my little man turned to me and with his fingers spread wide, he patted my closed eyes, as I often do his back, and he said, “night, night” and gave me the sweetest little kiss. My. Heart. Melted. He continued to do this off and on for the next half hour any time he caught me sneaking some shut eye, “night, night. night, night.”

It’s this kind of unexpected pocket of bliss that makes me want 12 more little Coopers and then just the one amazing original all at the same time.

I’ve spent my entire life wanting to be a mommy and dedicated nearly three years leading up to pregnancy desperately trying to get there (surgery, specialists, fertility meds were all necessary). And now that I’ve been so completely blessed, do I dare ask for more? Am I hanging my uncertainty about another child on the fear of what awaits when we start trying again … the endless negative pregnancy tests, the tears, the emotions, the turmoil? Am I good enough? Strong enough? Creative, energetic, loving enough to give parenting greatness to two children? Or is there a limit to my mommy mojo?

It amazes me how I can be so completely full on happiness and wonder and laughter and love and yet still long for more. Aww, just another one of the joys of mamahood, I guess.