I've never posted anything that wasn't short and businesslike, so 
forgive me for this long poem by Garrison Keillor, host of a wonderful 
radio show "A Prairie Home Companion."   I thought it was funny and 
tender, It makes a nice plug for "Mama's milk" and the wonderful medical 
staff, which should make some of you feel appreciated:  (Just FYI a 
"crappie" is a small fish caught in Midwest lakes.)

Here's the poem:

> When I first saw you, kid, you were tiny and thin
> And slimy and red and your head was mooshed in.
> I said to your mother, "He looks kind of sloppy,
> And a pound fifteen ounces ain't that big for a crappie."
>
> But something about you, the look in your eyes,
> Said you fully intended to grow to full size.
> They slapped your backside and you let out a cry,
> And I said, "We will keep him, at least we shall try."
>
> Some babies are born in nine months, by the clock,
> Some babies are born, and they sit up and talk.
> Some babies are born and no doctor is there,
> But some babies come in on a wing and a prayer.
>
> Poor little fetus as big as my hand.
> Poor little fish thrown up on dry land.
> Who came in late March though you had till July,
> Too small to live and too precious to die.
>
> They shipped you across to the big Neonatal
> Intensive Care Unit's computerized cradle.
> And attached you to wires and stuck you with tubes
> Monitored closely by digital cubes.
>
> And thanks to the latest neonatal therapeusis
> And regular basting with greases from gooses
> And your Mama's milk intravenously fed
> You did not fade away, you grew up instead.
>
> We'll always remember the months that you spent
> With tubes everywhere and hooked up to the vent
> And the trach in your neck, the wires attached,
> Sweet little baby only half hatched.
>
> I'll always remember each doctor and nurse in
> The NICU who helped make you a person.
> The kid who crash-landed, was carried away,
> Survived, and turns two years old today.

Now I will go back to being businesslike.

Margaret Wills, LLLL, IBCLC

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