I've never been this pregnant before.
Ezra died at 33 weeks, 5 days. I woke up yesterday with Sunflower at the exact same gestational age, and wondered if I should spend the rest of the day staring at the sky waiting to be hit by lightening. The morning was spent wallowing in a funk on the couch while still in my pjs and pink fuzzy robe. But then a friend called, with an offer of a visit with her and her 3 month old, and a promise she'd bring lunch. And so somehow the afternoon flew by, a large part of it spent with a sweet little boy sleeping on my shoulder, Sunflower kicking him from inside my belly. It was exactly what I needed - a very obvious and physical reminder that most babies live. At least so I'm told.
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