Sunday afternoon, Julia had a sort of combo play-date-get-together with Theo, my friend Collette’s ( another single baby mama) son. Her beautiful little man, adopted from the same orphanage as Miss JT. The children were born, roughly, six weeks apart, a little over a year ago. After an introduction, followed by a few minutes of butt scooting and crawling across the wooden floor, murmuring between the two babies started up. Then they stopped. Julia and Theo slowly faced one another on the polished-parquet floor, each leaned forward from the waist, and kissed. On the lips.

After the lip-lock, Theo and Julia moved on to more important activities—sorting through the toys littering the area rug in the living room, multitudes of stuffed animals, trucks, dolls of every size, weight and color then they set out to  chase Molly the dog’s long, hairy tail, flipping-flopping across the surface of the thick, carpet patterned in soft watercolor-like light blues, pinks and purples.

Collette and I sat puddled on either side of the large rug, staring at one another, sharing a God smacked moment of silence.

“Ummm,” Collette mumbled, “do you think they remember each other?”

I moved my head around in a whirl of confusion that mirrored the calculations ripping across my brain. First to the left and right, no they couldn’t have recalled that they started life in the same place, the same Hossana orphanage, on the same play mat. No. No way. Then my head moved up and down, this time more defined, as I watched our children move and play in their connected bubble of bliss.

For the balance of the afternoon, I couldn’t help thinking of the essayist’s Robert Lynd, thoughts on coincidence, the perfect truth for this perfect moment. “It is only in literature that coincidences seem unnatural.”

And playdates.