"Did you just know?"
No. I didn’t just know. The night before I found out, as I sat on the edge of my bed taking off my socks, I remember promising myself that I would remember the uncertainty I was feeling. No glossy re-imagining of my confusion, no sudden claim of maternal instincts. I didn’t know. I sat there for a few minutes wondering if it was the last night of my life during which I would not be directly responsible for another life.
But it was a strange time. 3 days before I got the positive test, I was in the lab bathroom when I caught the eye of my own reflection. “You should take a picture”, I thought, “so you’ll remember what it was like in the last few days before you knew.” There were many months of failure before that day, and I’ve never even thought of taking such a picture.
I also became rather fixated on the sentimental idea that the budding crocus in front of our apartment - the first flower of spring - would open on the day I learned I was pregnant. I took identical boring pictures of it for several days before it bloomed, and on the day that I tested positive, just as I came home from the pharmacy with the test in hand, I found the flower had opened, and I took another picture.
It’s easy to assign meaning to every little thing when something big happens. That’s the amygdala at work, mistakenly assigning salience to the scenery around an important event. It’s a neurological quirk I’m rather fond of, though. It builds up beautiful memories.
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