We are not marching. We are celebrating the girl who lived, the brave little toaster, the three pound baby that could. I could make her go on the March and ask her to understand, but instead I am selfishly celebrating my miniature girl, who turns four next week. We will host ten to fifteen other four year olds at a Little Gym class and eat a Costco cake and open a lot of presents wrapped in pink paper. For any of you out walking and supporting the March of Dimes, I give you my eternal thanks for helping an organization that helps preemies like mine, low birth weight babies like mine, children with metabolic disorders and kids with neurological diseases and injuries, again, like mine. Since I got to to keep my kids, I am celebrating them and donating to the teams walking for these kids and all the other like them:
Little Maddie Spohr, an angel flying too close to the ground
Ames, whose twin sister Simone lives on
and micro preemie twins Holland and Eden, whose mother asks only that people pledge her team for a dollar (or more) per pound of baby birth weight they had (nine pounds and three ounces for me, so under the new math I rounded up to ten)
and a whole lot of other babies whose needs are great and who look to us for help.
The proof is in the pudding: