Mommy Tears

From the time Dylan's pediatrician recommended we take him to a urologist for a consultation, I had a hunch that we weren't going to get good news.  (That sounds fairly dramatic, so keep in mind we were only dealing with the concern of an undescended testicle.)  Ryan kept reminding me that a consultation didn't necessarily mean that surgery was inevitable.  Still, my "mom instinct" had me convinced that we were looking at a surgical procedure.

Keeping Dylan out of trouble in the doctor's office kept me from thinking too much about why we were actually in the office.  On a side note, I don't understand why pediatric doctor's offices have a billion toys in their waiting rooms and none in the offices, where you actually do most of the waiting.

Even after crossing the hall to the ultrasound room, I played pat-a-cake with Dylan to keep him still, instead of worrying about the diagnosis. 

Even after the doctor came in and started talking about "the procedure", I concentrated on details and dates and schedules (the best day for Ryan? the best day for my mom to watch Abbey?)

Even after the nurse came in to discuss details of prep and recovery, I listened and packed up our diaper bag, tucking the sippy cup in on top, in case he wanted it when we got to the car.

Only when he was safely in his carseat, babbling away, oblivious to the ramifications of our thirty-minute appointment, did the tears come.  Silently and without warning, they fell from my eyes, hot in the cold air of the car.

Because there is no "only" when you're talking about sending your baby down a hospital corridor to receive general anesthesia.  There is no "only" when you try to push away the thought of the moment he'll wake up and see only strangers' eyes.

February 10th can't come soon enough.