A pregnancy test costs from sixteen to twenty dollars at the pharmacy. For about five minutes, the weight of the entire world rests upon the moment after you piss on a stick and the five minutes you wait for one line or two. Then you do it again. Get in the car, drive to the store, select a different brand, hand over twenty more, hope you don’t get stuck with the same clerk, drive home, drink three glasses of water and pee on another stick. New brand soaks through with an affirmative “YES.”
For some women, I suppose this is a moment for celebration. For others, terror. For me, shock along with some obscenities. Disbelief. Confusion.
What a curious device. This plastic piece of overpriced garbage delivering the news that there’s life on other planets. You can buy them at the dollar store. I think you can also buy paternity tests at the pharmacy now. Maury in your living room. Did you know that Maury is still a thing? It is.
I learned that sometimes women sell positive pregnancy tests on craigslist as a tool to manipulate men into staying in (presumably) unstable relationships.
In many ways, the pregnancy test is an emblem of momentous transformation. A plastic stick that holds within it a cosmos tunnel of what-nows, what-ifs and oh fucks. What power. Not inherently, but representatively so. The witch wand of motherhood.