Untitled and maybe temporary.

I don't want to cry and whine to my friends, but I need to cry and whine to someone, so you, Dear Blog, will be my someone. 

The Remicade is working fantastically. No ulcers, no Crohn's, no colitis, feeling fantastic. I think I just had my 6th infusion and there's no trace of disease. Huzzah! 

However, since March I've gained 20 pounds. After much research, I've learned that weight gain on remicade is actually pretty normal for Crohn's patients, some people gain as much as 60 pounds. 

I can't. I can't even. I can't think of that without crying. I feel so unlike myself. I feel like a blob. My clothes don't fit, I can't look at pictures of myself without melting down, I don't even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. The thought of another 40 pounds or even another five has me in knots. I am pretty much falling apart, because I am not a fat person. Well, the real me isn't. I'm active all day. I don't eat much in the way of extras. I'm not binging on ice cream or eating my feelings. I stay hydrated and I am trying so damn hard to keep this in perspective, but I'm failing. After every infusion, my weight jumps five pounds, and as the remicade leaves my system over the subsequent eight weeks, I start to lose a few pounds, only to gain it back plus a couple pounds once I'm infused again. 

I don't know what to do. If I quit the remicade, I could end up sick again. If I stay on the remicade, I'll continue to spiral emotionally. I'm not in a good place and I feel like all I'm doing is trying to hold it together in the midst of complete sorrow. I want to enjoy the holidays, but I'm not enjoying anything these days, feeling like I'm trapped in a stranger's body. 

That was depressing, I know. But I feel like I can't possibly say what I'm feeling out loud, because I can't draw more attention to the elephant in the room. (Heh. Don't tell me you didn't see that coming.) I feel ashamed every time I put a bite of anything in my mouth, because I obsess over what anyone around me must be thinking. How vain is that? I am gaining plenty of insight into a world I reached through a rabbit hole, a place I never, ever wanted to go. Now I understand why fat people end up with eating disorders. I'm a wreck, here. 

I've never been the skinniest girl in the room, but I've always been healthy. Now, nine months into what should be the best nine months in my life, recovering as I am, I feel completely helpless and tired. Sleep? Forget it. I spend bedtime recounting in my head everything I've put in my mouth all day, trying to decide if I'm feeling positive or downright bummed. And while the kids seem to think extra-fluffy mommy is great, I can't help but feel so ugly and sad when Andrew puts his arms around me only to find More of me than there has ever been before. 

I'll probably delete this tomorrow, but for tonight, I need to send it all out there, somewhere. I'm sure it'll all seem brighter in the morning. Self-pity isn't usually my jam, but I guess everyone needs to have a little rant every so often.

Just had a moment.

It's time to put these soft little size six jeans in the memory box. They've been hemmed up by Grandma, let out by Mama, hemmed up by Grandma, let out by Mama...holes in both knees...the first time she put them on, Andrew and I giggled and said, "her tiny little booty is so cute in those jeans!" and she gets a pinch every time she puts them on. They're like the Traveling Pants - she never grows out of them and they've fit perfectly for two years now.

My sweet baby is growing so fast. These little torn jeans are the ones I'll pull put every couple of years and cry over a little before I fold them again and tuck them back into the box.

You know those moments where you love them so much that it's almost sad, because you know you'll never have this very moment again? Bittersweet.

All I really want.

Someday my children will be grown. They'll make their own meals and think their own thoughts and pick out their own clothes and make their own decisions. I don't know what kind of mother I'll be to children who are in charge of their own lives. All I really desire for them is to live lives they can find peace in. I just hope they know that wherever the Lord leads them, whatever choices lie before them, there is nothing they will ever do that will separate them from my love. I am always there, right behind them, right next to them, on the other end of the phone, at the baggage claim of their destination airport, waiting to cheer them on, to console them, to hold them, to feed them. I will always pursue their love, especially when they feel completely unlovable. They are so incredibly precious to me, these five amazing people. I have known them so intimately from each first tiny movement. I have gazed at each of them for hours as they nursed, memorized every freckle, touched every tiny bit of skin, walked them when they were sick and crying, reassured them when they were scared, promised to always come back after I say goodbye.

How then, being who I am today, can I ever fail to feel the love of God? I know what it is to suffer for my children. I know what it feels like to watch my child beg to avoid discomfort. I know what it feels like to love them when they don't know how to love me back. Motherhood had given me such a unique glimpse at genuinely selfless live. What I do every day that they don't see? I love to do it anyway. I'm preparing them for their lives.

What stuns me to silence is that this intense, physical, unending love I have for my children is such a tiny fraction of the love my God has for me. He has watched every moment, counted every freckle, promised to always come back. He is preparing me for my eternal life. The culmination of my vocation has given me a tiny glimpse of what Heaven must feel like. I would imagine that heaven is watching your children fall in love with their children. Suddenly they realize just how much you've loved them all those years. Motherhood must be so special for God to watch. Suddenly they see a little flash of how loved they have always been. When they meet the tiny people they would happily die for, the only thing you've ever wanted them to know has been learned.
How amazing it must be for God as each immortal soul enters heaven. "You're here. You're finally here. Now do you see? This is what I've prepared for you!"

Hey, Mommy...

"...the baby spilled the Tums and I cleaned them up for you!"

Dear Laura

It's been over a month since you've blogged. Are you alive? How are things? 

Love, your husband.