Yes, the pregnancy test is my arch nemesis. I don’t think it’s weird at all that I’m almost phobic about an inanimate object. For months, pregnancy tests have tortured me with cold, hard, horribly accurate negatives. I hate even the idea of taking one. Because as much as I hate not knowing, it still has the element of possibility to it. I bought these tests a few days ago. They’ve been mocking me from the corner of the lounge room for all of those days. Despite my disdain for limbo, I was not tempted to take one. Josh and I had decided that we would take one this morning, when I was officially four days late. Which for me is unheard of. But still, I was dreading actually doing it more than anything else.
This morning, I crept out of bed at 4am. The munchkin was on one side and Josh was on the other. I gingerly hopped out of the lovely envelope of warmth and they both continued to snuffle a bit in their sleep. I was incredibly nervous, waiting for the ultimate disappointment.
And then, there it was, two thin pink lines. And although I was too excited to go back to sleep, what I felt most was relief. Relief that I wasn’t broken, relief that my body was capable and relief that this part of my journey was over and a new one had begun.
My name is Zoey. 
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