For most women, the Buying of The First Pregnancy Test is a rite of passage, a dotted line between "young adult" and "woman." For me, it was an enigma wrapped in tamper-evident packaging.
While I consider myself to be fairly intelligent and worldly, I had no idea there were so many different types, brands, or price spreads; + or -, | or ||, or the idiot-proof "pregnant" or "not pregnant" digital display, all ranging from roughly $6 to well over $40.
At 34 years old, I still felt ill equipped and a little concerned that I would "choose wrong." I cannot imagine having to make that decision being younger or without the gentle chiding of a supportive partner.
I also cannot believe that we shelled out $20 for something she was literally going to pee on (though, a quick trip past the isles of disposable diapers provided some perspective). I chose what I insisted on loudly calling the "It's Clear You're Easy" 5-test digital brand bulk pack, and we eventually made it toward the checkout counters for the next hurdle in the process: the I-Know-What-You've-Been-Doing judgmental eye of the checkout clerk (who, a cliche, was an elderly woman). I quickly handed my partner the "stuff."
When the time came to use the test, we were old pros at the process (the girlfriend is a champion at peeing on command, thanks to a 20-pack of ovulation tests). All of the charts and math indicated that if we were to be moms, we'd be able to tell "with 99% accuracy" on that day, and we were eagerly anticipating that day's arrival.
So, we tested. Though the ovulation tests piqued my anxieties, the anticipation built up by the blinking pregnancy test icon while we waited was nerve racking. I felt like a Price is Right contestant, excitedly enduring the beeps of the Big Wheel to see what I've scored.
After what felt like the longest two minutes of my life, the very solid (and unmistakable) digital words "not pregnant" appeared on the screen. And stayed.
My partner had been suffering from stomach discomfort for two weeks prior to this test. I tried not to think it meant anything — everything I'd read said it couldn't be anything, yet. I had balanced my fantasies of jumping up and down, hugging and crying with joy with visions of us calmly, sadly hugging each other through a different kind of tears. Instead, that digital "not pregnant" was a cold and quiet announcement that left me unable to react.
The worst, however, was yet to come. Dr. Google offered volumes of hope, of people who'd tested negative for weeks or even months, despite actually being pregnant. The only true test couldn't be predicted early — we'd just have to wait until she menstruated.
It was a long three days before we were 100% convinced our first attempt at becoming moms was unsuccessful.
Strangely enough, that negative test result was probably the most positive aspect of the entire process. The subdued, silent truth unnerved me — it had to be wrong, I was sure of it. She had to be pregnant. We wanted this, we tracked, we planned, we bought tests and educated ourselves. We did everything "right."
From that negative test, though, I learned just how positive I was that I wanted to be a mom, that I want a child. And I wanted a child, my child, with her. From those two little digital words I gained a sense of surety, of resolve: we were doing this. Together. We were going to get pregnant, and no glorified children's plastic watch could discourage that.
Thousands of women have endured the wait, hoping for their "monthly event." And I am sure thousands of men have even said a silent prayer or two in its name. I prayed for my girlfriend to mensturate simply because having a period would provide resolution, a sign that I could give up the lingering hope I was harboring and move on to The Next Time.
I will make a mommy out of her, of me. Of that, we are sure.
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