You might have money. You might have fame. You might have a life that never requires you to match unmatchable socks or scrub that grungy spot behind the toilet. You can keep ’em.
I’ve got a baby who hears the music and swings his fuzzy pajama-ed bottom from side to side. He bobs and sways, claps his hands, raises his arms, and spins with reckless abandon. I’ve got a baby who dances.