You may have noticed that for the first time since I started writing these newsletters, I missed a month. For several reasons, I just never got around to writing March’s letter. If I had, however, it would have gone a little something like this:
You have a hideous temper. Your tantrums are absolutely terrifying. There was a two week period of time that we stopped taking you out in public. We were trying to avoid a scenario in which you got loose and hijacked a car or viciously attacked someone. But things are getting better. The bruise from where you bit my arm is hardly noticeable now, and Dixie finally dares to leave her hiding place under the couch every few days to use the bathroom.
P.S. You are the absolute love and light of my life and I wouldn’t trade a second of my time with you for all the bacon in the world.
I wasn’t sure I would get around to writing a letter this month either because (I know I’ve used this excuse time and time again, but it holds true every time) things have been a little crazy. In fact, I sit here typing this from a hospital bed because, you guessed it, I’m in the hospital again. I spent the first half of this month telling myself I wasn’t getting sick, then pushing myself way too hard trying to prove it. Turns out, I still got sick. So now I’m here working very hard to get better so that I can come back home and be the best mom I can be for you.
It sucks to be away from you. (I’ve probably told you not to say “suck”. My mom always told me not to. But guess what, Mama says “suck”. Sometimes things just suck. Sometimes they really suck.) It sucks that so far you’ve spent two months of your short life without a mama at home. It sucks that your routine goes out the window and your whole world is shaken to the core when I’m here. It sucks that I have to be entirely dependent on others to care for you while I’m in the hospital. It sucks that your birthday party last year and our Easter celebration this year were both ruined because of unexpected hospitalizations. It sucks that one day I’ll have to tell you about cystic fibrosis. It sucks that so much of our life revolves around those words. I’m not usually so negative about this, but I want you to always feel like you can be open with me about your feelings and so here I am, being completely open with you. CF SUCKS! And you can feel free to use the word “suck” as much as you like whenever we talk about it. (By the time you’re reading this, I believe we will have discussed it a lot. Which sucks.)
Morgan, something I’ve always seen in you but that again I find myself in complete awe of is your capacity for love. When you’re not throwing chairs across the room or biting chunks out of the fur on Dixie’s back, you are incredibly caring, affectionate and sweet. One night last month you somehow got the idea in your head that I’d hurt my bum and you were honestly very concerned about it. You spent the entire night following me around, gently rubbing my behind, saying “Owie, booty. Booty, ow.” Though I was a bit confused (and flattered, really) that you were so preoccupied with my bum, I couldn’t help but think that if people genuinely cared about other people’s butts the way you do, the world would be a better place. Then last week I got some news that brought tears to my eyes. You saw me crying from across the room, came running over, climbed onto the bed with me and immediately started wiping away my tears. I was amazed that, without anyone saying a word, you understood that I needed comfort, and I really did begin feeling better with each tear you wiped away. Then I noticed you were eating each of those tears which kind of ruined the moment, but I like to think the sentiment was still the same.
You’re talking up a storm, though now that other people have been helping care for you, I’m starting to realize that much of what you say is only understood by a few people: me, Mindy (your babysitter/second mom), other small children (it’s like a secret language you guys have) and sometimes your dad. My favorite word you say right now is “wud”, which is how you say “love”. You’ll pull your dad or I close to you in a giant bear hug and say “wud”, and it melts my heart every single time. Your newest word is “topto”, which is really “helicopter”. You’ve spent the past two weekends looking out the window of my hospital room, watching the toptos transport people to/from the neighboring hospital. Each time you see one, you shout “TOPTO!” then frantically pound on the window as you watch it land. I’m grateful to the toptos for making this stay a bit easier on you (and your dad, who loves the toptos just as much as you do).
If there’s one thing about these hospital stays that could be considered good, it’s this: being locked up here away from “real life” makes me that much more grateful for the life that we’ve created at home. Nothing else has the ability to make me appreciate home and our blissfully boring evenings together in quite the same way, and in a strange way I suppose I’m very lucky for that.
But mostly it just sucks.