11.3.13 Dear Aimee

Dear, sweetest Aimee,

There is so much I have to tell you. I even have some to teach, like how to braid a dolly's hair, to love little brothers, or make special treats for daddy. I'd like to someday teach you to make hollandaise or how to write a poem. I'd like to color pictures together and wow as you surpass me. I'd like to hear the things you know and laugh with you over a cup of tea. I'd like to tell you how pretty your hair is and how you will always look beautiful without a dot of makeup. 

Today, what I wish I could say is how I really hate this disease, this disorder that robs us. I hate not knowing what you feel, think, or even what you know. I hate going to bed at night pondering you like some broken down machinery. I hate not knowing what hurts so I can pray that it gets better.

Today, I want to tell you how I love you so... but not the way I want to love you. I want to know what you love. I want to buy you a special toy that your heart so desires. I want to hear what you want to be when you grow up. I want to listen to you sing and know if your voice cracks and is off key. I want to see you twirl and dance with you to your favorite song (Or even to Move It, as Caleb calls his favorite song).

And yet, this ugliness crept in and trapped you. And I don't get to know you. I don't get to and I hate that with a deep, painful hate. It makes my chest tight and my eyes swell when I think of how little I know about who you really are.

Aimee, when we get to heaven, I want to sit with you and talk. We can hold hands like we do now. We can cuddle together like we do. Or we can run, twirl, and sing together. We could talk about how you felt about going to see doctors, about how the medicines changed things, about how I embarrassed you writing about your intimate life on a blog. I could apologize for the things I didn't know. I could smile at the times you enjoyed. And then we could get up and do the things we never got to do. You could taste the cookie dough, make a mess with the frosting, help Caleb and I make veggie juice. 

Someday, when all is whole, when these tears are dried, and sickness has been annihilated for good, I'll look into your eyes and tell you how much I love you. And you will know it fully.

Always,

Mommy