For the past six months my husband Jeff and I have swapped late nights out with early nights in. We’ve become experts on Benjamin Moore paint colors, car seats and having conversations about getting no sleep. Sometimes, while we lay awake in bed, we dream up baby names, saying new first names with our last name out loud, just to see how it sounds. Our first baby is due on June 2.

When Jeff and I go shopping, we both end up in the baby section, cooing at tiny socks, socks no larger than the size of my thumb. We hold them in our hands, imagining the wondrous ways our lives will change once she’s here. “Laundry will be so cute,” I say to him.

“I know,” he replies.

We also know it isn’t just adorable laundry loads that are in our foreseeable future. We know there is much that isn’t included in our life ahead, like spontaneous vacations. With this in mind, last month, we went to the Bahamas for a babymoon — a luxury pre-birth getaway to nurture ourselves before we nurture our own. It was a trip to paradise where the only things on our itinerary were sipping mocktails by the pool and in-room ice cream sundaes.

And we got just that. It was a great trip for us to take as a couple, but when we returned, I still felt like there was more I needed to do to before the baby comes in 11 short weeks.

So early last week, on a whim, I left my desk in Edgartown and walked to the movie theatre on Main street to buy a ticket to see Still Alice. I’ve never been to the movies alone, never really wanted to, but I did it because I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do it once the baby comes.

I bought a ticket, a small popcorn and a bottle of water and found a seat in the theatre. I sat diagonally across from two ladies, both probably in their 50s, the only other people in the theatre.

Still Alice is a movie about a woman named Alice Howland diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. The film highlights her memory loss and how it directly impacts the ones she loves most, her husband and children. Memories are our most prized possessions, Alice says in the movie.

I wonder if my mother remembers what I remember about my childhood — picking yellow flowers in the backyard at our home in Baltimore, packing the whole family in the station wagon to drive to a farm in Virginia to pick peaches and later come home and can them, twirling around the house in a tutu and singing made-up songs with Kirby, our golden retriever. I wonder what my daughter will remember about her childhood, and if I’ll remember it differently. I wonder if she’ll remember trips to State Beach, eating ice cream in Ocean Park and Christmas at my parents’ house the same way I will.

I stayed until the very end of the movie, put my coat back on and headed to the restroom. As I was walking out of the bathroom, the other two women from the theatre were walking in.

“What did you think of the movie?” one woman asked me. “Sad,” I said, and she nodded her head. “Do you know anyone with early-onset?” she asked. No, I answered. She did, she said. Her grandmother.

“I spent the last year of her life with her,” the woman told me. “She called me her best friend.” The woman added that her grandmother had lost her appetite that last year. “So we drove around the Island and tasted every single kind of vanilla ice cream at every shop that sold it. We shared that memory.”

As I walked away down the street, I thought about the new life growing inside of me, how her little feet like gummy bears kept kicking at my growing belly. I want to always remember that feeling, and I want to always remember the look Jeff gave me when I first told him I was pregnant and how tears I had never seen before dripped down his cheeks thick as rain.

Our lives are about to change in ways we can’t imagine. I want to remember how this felt, and how I once walked down the street on a cloudy day, alone but not really, propelled forward by two hearts beating inside of me.