Some coincidences are eerie.

And others are a gift. 

When Nigel was a baby, I joined my first playgroup. The moms chatted and changed diapers. It was fun. When the playgroup disbanded, I joined a second one. It was during the summer and only lasted for those three glorious sunny months. The moms were busy, but we got along well. I'm still friends with some. 

But the third playgroup was special. During our first get-together at the Chinese Garden, we talked. And talked. We shared our vulnerabilities, our marriages and the difficulties of raising toddlers. We met on Wednesdays at 10, and drove a bit too quickly to to each other's homes. We continued to talk. There was always food: deviled eggs, homemade salsa with tortilla chips, freezer jam, mac-n-cheese, farm fresh berries and baked sweets. We always stayed too late, usually until two, sometimes two thirty, until one toddler would have a meltdown (Nigel) signaling naptime, and kids would be scooped up off the floor and latched back into their carseats. Through it all, we never stopped talking--or eating, for that matter. 

Kindergarten ended our weekly playgroup. But we found ways to get together. At least twice a year. At least that was the goal. The kids would pick up where they left off, and us four moms would either stand or sit--usually with food in our hands--and talk. Sometimes we cried, too.

And then one mom in our tribe of four told us that she had breast cancer. It was during spring break. And then I was diagnosed two months later. 

So this Fourth of July, we got our families together. The kids played. Of course there was food. And, naturally, we talked.