You have not left my thoughts for more than a nanosecond since you left my arms more than nine months ago. I wish I had been wrong when I wrote your first birthday letter, but I knew even then that by today, I'd be sending your message to a place without a zip code.
I miss you. I miss you I miss you Imissyou. I don't know what more to say because that is what fills my heart.
What I should be doing is planning a birthday party and fighting some other mom for the last Anna and Elsa merchandise on Long Island. I should be placating Colin and Reid for allowing you to watch Frozen for the 1,804,847th time. I should be running around stressed about the weather, wondering if it will hold out for your backyard blowout.
Should. Such a sucky word, always wanting for more than what we have. But, in this instance, I can't think of a better one, for Quinn, you should be turning two today. Here. In this house, in our family, in my arms.
But you're not. You're celebrating with your new friends, living your new life. Hopefully you and Wylder get to have separate parties and not have to do the joint party thing. I'm pretty sure they allow two parties in a row in heaven.
And since you're not, I'm not. So instead of planning your birthday party, daddy and I and some other people who love you so much have been planning how to honor you in the biggest and best way.
And so today, on your second birthday sweet girl, we mark the start of something new, something great, something that will be tremendous.
We launch Quinn Madeleine Inc.
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Babies who won't live to see their 2nd or third birthdays - and even some who won't live to see their first. Sweet children under the age of three who have been slammed with the same fate - though the name of the disease may be different, the fate is the same. The incredible memories we were so fortunate as to create with you, we will help these families make.
And babies who are just like you, who have not even been born yet, whose parents are blissfully unaware of the horror that lays ahead of them when they too will be told their child has Niemann-Pick Disease, Type A. We'll be working to make sure as few of them as possible are told to go home and love their child, and instead are told about an amazing new advance in treatment - and one day, a cure.
So, sweet girl, we can't be together. Not for a long time. But we also can't be apart. We're intrinsically linked, you and I - now moreso than ever.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
I love you so much. Thank you for picking me to be your mommy!