Pregnancy hormones strike again

I'm driving to work this morning, minding my own business, listening to Morning Edition on NPR.  They have this feature called "StoryCorp," in which people record stories about themselves or their lives, and the recordings are then archived at the Library of Congress.  This morning's StoryCorp feature was about a guy whose son died in Iraq.  After his son's death, he went to Washington on Memorial Day for a special service at the Vietnam Memorial.  In an unbelievable stroke of coincidence, while he was at the Wall, he met the Army trauma nurse who was part of the team that treated his son when he died.  

And as I'm listening to this story, I burst into tears.  

In the meantime, sitting on the passenger seat is a little picture of Zeke that the teachers at his school made for Mother's Day.  It's on a string, like it's supposed to be an ornament or something, and I didn't really know what to do with it so I figured I'd bring it to work and hang it on my wall.  

It's not even a very good picture of him.  But I keep listening to this poor father talk about his dead son, and I keep looking at this picture of my beautiful little son, whom I had last seen as he waved goodbye to me and blew me kisses out of the back window of Jason's car (J takes him to school in the mornings, and I pick him up in the afternoons), and I just cry and cry.  I have to sit in the car in the parking lot at work for a couple of minutes, so I can compose myself.  

I think the story would have floored me under the best of circumstances.  But today, with my belly getting bigger, and the kicks of my unborn daughter pushing against the wall of my abdomen, and pregnancy hormones surging through my body, I never had a fucking chance.