![]()
Before I start, I should say that the mother I'm going to talk about was my friend years and years ago, and that I moved to California very shortly after she became pregnant, and I really don't know her well, or at all anymore. Moving across the country eliminated my ability to remain close to anyone here in Massachusetts, and the relationships that survived were the ones that were already 'permanent' before I left. Had her baby lived, would I have known her? I don't know that. But had I lived in Massachusetts, Carol and I would have remained friends (not best, or necessarily even good, but certainly friends), and I certainly would have known her baby. Anyway, all that is to say that this isn't my story to tell, and Charlotte may not have been a child I knew had she lived. But, alas, she didn't, and Carol probably really didn't need a kind-of-friend 3,000 miles away, and anyway, Charlotte had nothing to do with our drifting apart. In fact, without her, I feel that it is quite possible that I'd have no heart connection to Carol anymore at all. I hope that makes sense. It's just realistic. Anyway.
I remember having instant message conversations with Carol while she was pregnant, and I lived in California. She wouldn't say what she was going to name her baby, but I'm pushy. I thought she was having a girl, I was sure of it, and so Carol told me that her name was a character in a book. I didn't guess it! Duh! Anyway, I felt a strong connection to this baby because she was due on my birthday. I knew she wouldn't be born on my birthday, probably, because I've never heard of a child being born on their due date. But I was really excited about this baby, not knowing the effect of living 3,000 miles away was going to have on my relationships with people still in Massachusetts. I was crocheting this baby a blanket with puffy, pastel colored yarn. I visited in the late winter of that year (2003) for some reason I can't remember. I bought this baby clothes, even though I really prefer to wait until a baby is born to buy things for him/her. But I lived SO far away - so I made an exception. I bought her an outfit with ducks on it, or alligators. I can't remember which. Maybe it was frogs.
It passed May 5th, my birthday, and the phone finally, finally rang on May 13th, and it was Megan, Carol's childhood friend, and our only mutual friend, and I was standing in my San Francisco kitchen, and Megan told me the baby, Charlotte, had died right before she was born, and she told me all the details she knew, which have been seared into my memory. I knew Carol had said she needed 10 more minutes with the baby when she was going to be taken away. I knew it was heart breaking. My heard broke for everyone, and for losing this baby who could have had my same birthday, whose name I did find out before she was born because, I think because, I lived so far away and who could I have possibly told?
Carol now has three more babies, they're all healthy and happy. I don't know them at all, and that's okay because that's what happens when you move away. But I will never, ever forget Charlotte, who really makes me a better Auntie, because she was lost to the world, but not to my heart, before I could meet her. Because maybe, just maybe, I could have been her 'Auntie Kristin' and maybe, just maybe we could have had the same birthday.
I was with my dear, dear, friend-sister, Erica, and her husband, when she had both of her babies, who were both born healthy and beautiful, and who I love more than/differently than I knew was possible before Alice slid out into this world, determined to arrive, even though her mother bled for months and even though Alice had a 50/50 chance and even though the first pregnancy was a miscarriage, and even though her mother could barely stand the labor, right before my eyes. And that love exploded with Jack's arrival, different, and much less dramatic, but way up close, and just as gorgeous and amazing. And because I knew, really knew, that the arrival of a baby alive into the world was never a guarantee. That knowledge stayed with me, unspoken of course (although Erica does know about Charlotte), until the moment those babies cried. And I know nobody can love like a mom, but I also know that nobody can love like the luckiest auntie in the world, who was allowed to be a part of the entrance of these two perfect babies into the world, which is such a huge gift that I can't even wrap my heart brain soul around it. And I know I cherish these babies more because of Charlotte, and that Charlotte is a real baby to me, just as she would have been had she been able to live in the world, and I had never met her (which, like I said, is likely).
I remember Charlotte's story like flashes - instant message, visit for a reason I can't remember, fuzzy pastel blanket, frogalligatorduck onesie, conversation in the pizza place about all the issues babies can have when they're born, what the name would be, phone call in the kitchen, conversation with a camp volunteer whose baby died similarly over a decade ago, card mailed and returned and I don't know if I mailed it again, instant message later, baby pictures of second baby, fade fade fade, article for Mothering magazine, facebook 3 years later. But then it gets woven into Alice and Jack's stories with gratitude and extra love and extra amazement.
I bet Carol thinks, if she'd even think of me for more than a second, that I couldn't possibly remember Charlotte beyond 'poorCarolwhosebabydied,' but I really, really do. And I should probably tell her, but is it my place? That I don't know. But 'I carry her heart with me (I carry it in my heart).'
Charlotte's web. All the things connected. The words 'terrific,' 'radiant' to point out that something that seems pretty good already is actually quite amazing.