Yellow Crocs

How Charlotte’s Web taught my daughter how to cope with loss

“My yellow Crocs don’t fit any more,” my child mourned.

Last spring, we took her to the Crocs store and let her pick out her own shoes. She selected a bright yellow pair and two charms: A green frog and a tiny duck. The Crocs became part of her personality. When she wore them, she pranced more than she walked.

I knew she would eventually outgrow them, but I was in denial about the imminence of this eventuality. This spring, when the day finally came, I tried to downplay the situation. I put the yellow Crocs out of her sight, so we wouldn’t have a daily battle over shoes that were too small. I hoped that they would fade away.

But, both fortunately and unfortunately, children possess object permanence. And so, a few days later she brought up the yellow Crocs of her own accord. While snugly strapped into her car seat, she said, “I feel sadness in my heart that my yellow Crocs are too small.”

I silently groaned. Oh no, the yellow Crocs!

But then she added, “But I can give them to a teeny tiny baby, and the yellow Crocs can live in my heart and memory.”

I echoed what she had said: “Yes, that’s exactly right. They can live in your heart and your memory.” And internally I thanked E.B. White for Charlotte’s Web. I knew that my child’s framework for coping with loss and grief came from that very story.

Over the last year, Charlotte’s Web has become an anchor text for our family. We’re obsessed. From a Meryl Streep–narrated audiobook to the 1973 animated film to a homemade Halloween costume, Charlotte Web permeates our home. Whenever my daughter notices a spider’s web, she points it out with delight and calls it “Charlotte’s Web.”

One evening I was chatting with my husband and musing about why our daughter is so taken with this story.

He asserted, “I think she likes it because the stakes are real. Wilbur’s life is on the line. Charlotte actually dies.”

I think he’s right. Charlotte’s Web doesn’t talk down to children. When we talk about the story, my daughter recounts the following beats: “At the end of the story, Charlotte dies! And Wilbur feels really sad, but she has babies that live, and Charlotte lives in Wilbur’s heart.” She’s not merely summarizing the story. She gets the story. She gets the idea of legacy. She gets grief. She gets that in the face of grief and loss, we can cope. She’s understanding the business of life–the work of being human.

This past year my grandpa, my daughter’s great-grandpa, died at age 92.

As his memorial service approached, I knew I needed to talk about real death with my daughter. I wanted to do it well, and I felt grateful that my daughter’s first lived experience with death was with someone who had lived a long and full life.

I pulled up a photo of my daughter, my mom, my grandpa, and me. We named all the people in the picture. I reminded her: Charlotte’s body stopped working, she died, Wilbur felt sad, and she lived on in his memory.

To close the loop, I said, “I have something very sad to tell you.” Pointing to my grandpa in the photo, I explained, “Grandpa’s body stopped working and he died. He can live on in our hearts and in our memories.”

As she wrapped her mind and emotions around what I was saying, she repeated my words. While not comfortable, she understood what I was saying because Charlotte’s Web had made the words familiar.

Before the memorial service, I prepared my daughter for what she would see: songs, people sharing memories, and tears from those who loved and missed him.

During the service, she whispered throughout, narrating it to herself: “Next we’re going to sing a song,” “Now people are talking about their special memories,” and, “Grandpa can live in our hearts.” She was orienting herself within a structure she already understood.

As an English teacher, I had experience with a text being an anchor text for a class—a shared intellectual and emotional experience that shapes our learning and community. When I became a parent, I knew we would read with my daughter, but I didn’t realize that our family would also have anchor texts. I drew upon Charlotte’s Web to help her understand what happened in our family when her great-grandpa died. Six months later, she drew upon the same story to manage the loss of outgrowing her beloved yellow Crocs.

My daughter didn’t need to write an analytical essay about Charlotte’s Web to show she understands its message. Her very life is proof that she understands it. The story is interwoven with hers.