Late last night I go an email from an old friend I haven't really been keeping in touch with (I suck at keeping in touch). He and his wife (who I've only met a few times and don't know well at all) had their baby last Thursday.
He was stillborn at 20 weeks.
And while I was reading this email, Junebug did one of his jab-punch-jab maneuvers.
Which, of course, made me feel bad because my baby is inside his uterus where he belongs, doing normal baby stuff, while Andrea's baby is... not.
Every time I woke up last night (and in all my dreams), there was little Brennan's tiny, perfect face. Just like his dad.
My heart wasn't in it when we sang hallelujah in church this morning. As a matter of fact, I cried so hard I had to go to the bathroom to compose myself. Which only worked very temporarily.
Then I called a mutual friend hoping to talk this over with her and ended up having to tell her what had happened.
I've been chewing on this all day. It's just so wrong. So wrong.
I hate it when I don't have all the answers.
I hate how I just made their loss about me.