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Thursday, June 2, 2011

Three-year-olds are not supposed to die. Not in my world. Not the crazy, beautiful ones I know. And not suddenly, without warning or illness or good-byes. The “really bad news” that came in the phone call about a friend and fellow mother is worse than I could have ever even conceivably imagined. Her little one, her oldest drowned just hours before. She spent the normal, mundane hot, humid Southern day with her, ending it with a late afternoon trip to the pool, never even considering it would be her last. There are no words. She awoke yesterday morning and got her dressed, fed her breakfast, let her play with her sibling, fed her lunch, let her nap and loaded her and her sister and all the gear into the car for the pool. And then their lives changed forever.

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