My country for a drop of pee...

Just when I thought that there was no lower level to which I could sink, I sank.

You should understand that I am a complete hypochondriac-by-proxy, which means that I am constantly convinced that Baby Girl has contracted some devastating (but not deadly) disease. The slightest hint of a sniffle or sneeze sends me running for my second most prized reference book in the entire world, The Encyclopedia of Plague and Pestilence (the first place going to The Oxford Dictionary of Saints). Just this weekend, Baby Girl, while using her new baseball tee turned to me and said that it hurt when she peed, so, I quickly diagnosed the Black Death. Mr. Lemony Lemonade thought it best to get a second opinion (no fun!) - from a "conventional medical doctor."

We went to the pediatrician this afternoon and quite to my utter dismay, we were told that a urine sample was necessary. Now, Baby Girl is NOT POTTY TRAINED, or, at least, she is apparently potty trained at daycare but at home, the potty is a place to play with her dollies and read books. Anyhow, we were given two options: option one, conventional plastic cup and option two, a plastic bag that has an oval hole cut into it surrounded by sticky plastic that is somehow attached to, errr, the nether regions to collect pee. I assessed the options: option one, tough, given that she can't pee on demand and even more difficult, as I have to somehow figure out how to get the cup in the right place at the right time. Option two seemed on its face easier but could it really work?

We tried option one first which found Mr. Lemony Lemonade and I in our suits in the bathroom bracing ourselves for how in the world we were ever going to achieve what was clearly doomed to failure from the start. Feeling that it was necessary to give it a try, I put on the latex glove and use the provided antiseptic wipe to, well, wipe. That marked the end of the easy portion of the program. What ensued was the most ridiculous gymnastics; attempting to get Baby Girl on the potty, trying to get the jar into position, trying to stop Baby Girl from squirming and trying to watch what I was doing. At least Baby Girl had the sense to declare the whole thing a bust. In any event, it doesn't take a bleeding engineer to work out the logistics on a two year old, full size toilet, two adults and one, very small plastic cup into which the two year old is supposed to pee. Option one aborted.

Option two was too complex for our parental pea brains, so the doctor did the whole peel and stick thing. Of course Baby Girl was amused for about a nano second before removing the whole bag contraption thingy-majig. Option two aborted.

So, now I am at home plying Baby Girl with water as if a drought is imminent and chasing her around the house with the Fisher Price Sing and Learn Potty (the potty plays music when she pees) and generally enthusing about urination, like, "oh, I wish I could do a pee pee in the potty" or "wouldn't it be fun to pee pee in the potty" and the ultimate sign of desperation "Dora likes doing a pee pee in the potty." Finally, I got her to sit on the bloody thing and she sat there for 33 minutes! She doesn't do anything for 33 minutes EVER, nothing, or at least not anything that I have ever witnessed. She read a few books, fed her Dora doll pretend peas and carrots, did a puzzle and coloured a picture - all while sitting on the potty! After 33 minutes, not a drop of pee pee was to be found; I practically fought back the tears.

So, if Baby Girl is suffering from the Black Death, I will never know because I can't get any sodding pee.