You, with that big pregnant belly in the checkout lane.
I'm really jealous of you. I want to reach out and touch your stomach. I want to make sure you know to appreciate all this. To take it easy. To not stress out about having that extra coffee this morning. Let the stock boy lift that box for you! I try not to stare, but I can't help it. If a weird look crosses my face, it's not disgust. It's shock at seeing you, a hurt that goes straight through me, a lot of jealousy. It's not you. It's me.
You, with the baby pictures all over your blog.
I'm really jealous of you. I can't stop torturing myself by looking at your pictures. Your baby is adorable. I wish I had one. I try to remind myself that even if Caleb had lived he wouldn't be your baby and there's no reason to be jealous. But I am. Every expression your baby makes cuts me to the core. Seeing those pictures magnifies the emptiness in my arms by a million. I love them - they're really cute - but I hate them at the same time. I don't hate your baby. I hate that I don't have my baby.
You, the one on Facebook bitching about your kids or how you hate being pregnant.
I'm really jealous of you. I would give my life to trade places with you. Shut up. Just shut the hell up.
Me, the one with the empty uterus and empty arms.
Stop looking at the calendar. Stop torturing yourself by going on Facebook or baby blogs. Don't look at that website of cute baby clothes. Stop pushing your stomach out when you get dressed in the morning so you'd see what you look like wearing that outfit if you were still pregnant. You'll be pregnant again someday. Hopefully soon. Focus on that. Focus. Focus.