Hey, remember when my daughter turned one, and we had the “Three Babies, One Cake And A Whole Lot Of Plastic Sheeting” party? Well, one of the moms was Aria…she’s the one on the left.
Piano teacher/stay-at-home-mom. The plan went that when Shayla turned three, she’d start taking piano lessons from her. And the day those pictures were taken, Aria told us that she was pregnant again.
Yesterday, her son Max came into the world. Which leads me to a question:
How in the fuck does someone, in this day and age, die in childbirth? It’s not like we’re talking about someone who went into unexpected labor and gave birth in a fucking bathroom somewhere. How can a routine birth in a hospital…completely surrounded by doctors and modern medical equipment…end with a girl in her early 20’s going to the fucking morgue?
Now we’ve got a 23-year-old guy who is a fucking widower with a 20-month-old toddler and a newborn. He’s been working three jobs in order for his wife to be able to stay at home and raise their daughter. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of time to have a stong hand in the day-to-day running of the household…how the hell is he supposed to get by now?
Fuck…not the kind of news I needed to wake up to today.
Welcome to the world, Max.
Goodbye Aria…you’ll be missed.