My daughter’s nursery is a stone’s throw from the fertility clinic where she was conjured into being. Despite walking past the entrance four times a day, several times a week, the drab building still seems remarkable to me, a place of worry and wonder. I often think about that time in my life, and lately have considered why it took getting pregnant for me to really open up about it.
Initially, we told select friends and family. It seemed such a momentous process that keeping it between the two of us didn’t feel possible — how else would I explain why I couldn’t commit to the hen do around the time of my egg collection, or my sudden switch from wine to nettle tea? Most people we told were concerned and supportive, but some — to our surprise — seemed purely excited. Perhaps they hadn’t known if we were going to have children and were pleased we were (hoping to), or possibly they had a skewed idea of the success rates, like I used to.
