The week before my oldest son, Reid, was born I penned him a letter entitled, “A letter to my unborn son, from your mom with Crohn’s disease.” When I wrote that article, I was 38 weeks pregnant. As a first-time mom, living with Crohn’s disease, I had a mix of excitement, anxiety, and fear about taking the plunge into parenting. Tomorrow (March 29th) Reid turns five. Now as I reflect on my experience of living as an IBD mom for half a decade, I want to share what I’ve learned along the way with you and write him another letter to mark this milestone.
Where do I begin? Five years ago, you changed my life in the most beautiful, exciting, challenging, and everchanging way possible. You made me a mom. After more than 11 years of fighting Crohn’s disease and constantly feeling at war with my body, I was able to nurture you, help you grow full-term with a flawless pregnancy, and bring you safely into this world. I feel like I blinked, but I also feel like I’ve known you my whole life.
We’ve been through a lot together, little buddy. As a stay-at-home mom I’ve been by your side through everything. I’ve witnessed every moment of you growing up and I feel eternally grateful for that opportunity. Before you were born, I used to pray that I wouldn’t be hospitalized with a flare up until you could walk. I imagined you as a toddler walking into my hospital room. I feared what it would be like to spend countless days away from you, Facetiming with a smile through the tears or trying to recover from surgery with a little one depending on me at home.
But those fears never became realized. We’ve made it five years, flare up free, baby boy. That’s not to say I haven’t had painful days, procedures, and worries along the way. But you’ve been my greatest motivation since you came into this world. You’ve patiently sat day after day on the bathroom floor when mommy’s tummy wasn’t feeling well. You’ve comforted me on the couch when I don’t have the energy to go outside. You’ve cheered me on as I drank colonoscopy prep each year. You’ve handed me candy and told me it was medicine to make me feel better. You’ve attended countless doctor appointments and lab draws. You’ve snuggled me when you know I’m unwell. You’ve sat next to me with a toy pretending to do an injection alongside me on Monday nights, staring at my face to see if I was hurting. You’ve taken your own shots at the pediatrician like a champ because you’re so desensitized.
You constantly see me through a lens I’ve never been seen through before. I catch you watching my facial expressions. I know when you’re worried about me. I melt when you randomly ask me how my tummy is feeling and if I’m feeling happy, but also feel a sense of sadness that you even need to have that thought cross your mind. You are an empath with a heart of gold. While I wish you didn’t need to witness and experience these difficult moments and I try my best to shield you from my struggles, I know in my heart, and I’ve witnessed firsthand how my disease has shaped and continues to shape our family in positive ways.
As you gear up for kindergarten this fall, I will miss our days…even the long ones! You’ve been a constant in my life since the moment I held you for the first time. Your personality as a baby seemed quiet and shy, boy did you have me and everyone else fooled! You’re so silly, so smart, so thoughtful, so outgoing. You’ve given me a run for my money more times than I can count, but I love that you are so steadfast in knowing what you want and sharing that openly with me.
As an IBD mom I find myself looking at you, and at your sister and brother, on the daily wondering and worrying deep down if one day you’ll get my disease. Every night we say our same prayer, the same prayer I’ve said to you all your life, hugging and rocking back and forth.
“Dear God, keep my baby healthy, safe, and strong. Guide him and protect him. Let him continue to be a light for everyone he meets. I love you forever and ever and ever, I love you forever and ever. I love you forever and ever and ever, I love you forever and ever.”
When I pray for *healthy*, I mean no IBD…but you don’t know that yet. You are a picture of health in every sense of the word. Someday when you’re older you’ll know what I’ve been up against my entire adult life, but my hope is that it will inspire and empower you to be strong through the unpredictable peaks and valleys life will throw your way.
I still haven’t explained fully to you that I have Crohn’s disease. I’m not sure it’s necessary to even say “disease” to you. As you grow up, I’ll tell you more. But for now, I don’t want you to worry or wonder. I hope we get another five years hospital visit-free.
Thank you for showing me all that’s possible and for making me a mom. Five years of loving you, guiding you, and watching you thrive has been magical. When I was pregnant with you there was a Florida Georgia Line song called “H.O.L.Y.” that always made me cry thinking of you—because of the line, “you’re the healing hands where it used to hurt.” The other day I was driving home from the grocery store and that song came on the radio. I hadn’t heard it in years. Instant tears. Instant gratitude.
I love you, Reid Robert. I wish I could bottle up your laughter and littleness. I find myself really staring at you lately in awe that we’re at this point already. You are everything I ever dreamed of and more than I ever hoped for. Thank you for being the sweetest motivation and distraction and for being wise beyond your years. I am so so proud of you. I appreciate you reminding me without knowing it that I am so much more than my disease.