Samuel isn’t gaining weight.
It stresses my momma’s heart.
I see this cute little tow-headed blue-eyed, boy, with the cutest meow voice ever, wandering around my home. I watch him eat. Moh, moh, moh (more) — he tells me as his little hands grab morsels of food. He’s smart. Make that brilliant. He’s daring, and busy, and wonderful. He has this mellow and yet incredibly spunky personality that melts the hearts of anyone he meets. I see this blessing, this child overcoming, this child loving life.
Then I see the weight chart for the last several months.
I see his percentile — hanging onto the bottom 1% of the chart. Too low. Too low. Too low.
I compare him to other little ones. He’s small. A head shorter than a toddler just six months older. Not that much bigger than an 8month old. His pants are 9-12month size. People at Target ask me if he’s a year old yet when he’s approaching his 19 month birthday mark.
Sometimes my heart hurts.
I really hate Celiac Disease.
There. I said it. Even though I can manage it, I still don’t have to like it. It really wasn’t welcome in my life. And it certainly wasn’t wanted in Samuel’s life.
It destroyed my Samuel’s intestines. Gluten crushed the villi that we take for granted and probably don’t even think about until they aren’t working. It’s taking months and months and months for those little villi to try to heal and for the nutrients that he eats to finally absorb so that he can gain weight. Not stay flat. Any trace bit of gluten sets him back for weeks.
I want him to thrive. Completely.
And in that thriving is growing. He’s turned around so much — energy, curiosity, health — he just needs to grow. Gain some weight.
I’m adding more fat and nutrients and power foods to his diet. I’m fighting.
I’m fighting with all the strength that a mother can muster.
And in fighting comes prayer.
So I will pray.
Every. Single. Day.
I want him healed.