Way back when we were in childbirthing class, we met Brian and Kristi. Their son was due three days after ours, they were open and friendly, and Kristi’s third-trimester size, although considerably smaller than mine, was close enough that I didn’t feel completely humiliated when standing next to her.

Also, they were really funny. We both really liked them both.

In class, they were the only other pair who laughed when our teacher, during the very serious and “calming” guided meditation, directed the labor partners to “rub her buttocks,” and “rub her chest.” When a sweaty and topless mom in one of the birthing videos posed for a photo after achieving a drug-free extraction, Brian quipped, “Now, there’s their Christmas card!”

After our babies were born – hers on her due date and mine two long weeks late – we started hanging out. Kristi and I would march our strollers around Lake Como comparing stomach flab and swearing never to have more children; Brian grilled burgers for all of us and tolerated Dan’s love of Viking football. The kids will be in hockey together, we said. They might even go to the same school!

And just when we had our lives all mapped out, they broke the news that they were relocating to Wisconsin, to a town that’s a five-hour drive from here.

“I miss Brian and Kristi,” I said wistfully to Dan last weekend. We haven’t spoken to them in months, and I don’t know what made me think of them.