Bent over the toilet in my bright yellow bathroom, I can’t help but glance furtively at the Shopper’s Drug Mart bag beside the pedestal sink. Contained therein is a fairly simple object—a pregnancy test. I’d never thought about it before really, since science has always put me off terribly, but the design is really quite basic: just a thin strip of material that connects to an indicator contained in a sleek plastic tube. So simple, yet this tiny object is perhaps the most feared by women and men alike. No other object is capable producing such a wide range of emotions simultaneously: anxiety, joy, anticipation, anger, doubt, and sadness. I know I’m feeling all these emotions right now, at the mere thought of what that bag contains.

The thought of having a child does not scare me; after all, I already have two. In fact, I have two other pregnancy tests in my house, both of which were used between one and three years ago and that I kept for different reasons. When I think about it, I’m fascinated by the vast difference between all three tests and the emotions that accompany them.

The first of these pregnancy tests, which I took in March 2006, I fully expected to be positive. I didn’t expect a positive result because the pregnancy was planned—most certainly not, for I had just recently broken up with the father after a fairly brief relationship—rather, I expected it because it was just something I just knew, a gut maternal instinct. At that time, I experienced all kinds of emotions:  fear over the potential test result, joy at the prospect of a baby in my life, doubt of my abilities as a mother, and sadness from knowing my situation was not ideal. The moment I opened my eyes and saw two little blue lines, my heart began racing, my brain was overwhelmed, and I began to pace furiously around the apartment. My first action was to call my aunt; she helped calm me before I called the father.

The entire process from conception to birth with my first child was fascinating for me in many ways, and my emotions changed daily with my circumstances. This fascination becomes clearer when I consider where that pregnancy test ended up: I scrapbooked it. I like to scrapbook, creating pages to contain the precious moments in my life, and that pregnancy test ended up on a pastel orange page with the words “Waiting for Autumn” written in large bold letters, Autumn being the name of my first daughter. Still, perhaps even more interesting than the process itself, is comparing this situation to that of my second daughter.

Me and my husband, Charles, have been together since only shortly after my first pregnancy started. As best friends before the relationship and devoted couple since, it quickly became obvious that we would be sharing our lives together and that we wanted more children. Our next pregnancy was planned carefully. We considered the timing and how it would affect everything from school and work to our finances. The day I took that pregnancy test, I was once again sure I was pregnant, but this time the only emotion I felt was contentment, not even joy. Not because I was any less delighted with my second pregnancy, but because, in the absence of all other extreme emotions, an extreme happiness was not required to compensate.

So, where did that test end up? I kept it, but I put it on a shelf in our bedroom and I’ve barely looked at it since. I’m actually considering throwing it out as I write this, but I can’t quite resign myself to doing so. At the time I took the second pregnancy test, it seemed necessary to keep it. After all, what message would it send to my second daughter if I kept her older sister’s test but just tossed her own away? But, when I really think about it, there’s just no reason to keep it. I won’t be gluing the second into a scrapbook because there’s no emotional attachment to it. There’s no history, no story. That second pregnancy test did not come with extreme emotions attached. So, I probably will throw it away, just not today.

So, why do so many emotions accompany the unused pregnancy test within my reach? You can probably guess that this pregnancy, if a pregnancy does indeed exist, would not be planned. Charles and I are still together, and we do expect to have another child, but not right now. In fact, we’ve been taking all necessary precautions to ensure we do not become pregnant now. It wouldn’t be the right time: our house is too small, our finances are too tight, our schedules are too crowded, and a pregnancy right now would interfere with my personal plans for the future. So, I’m terribly emotional: I’m angry at the thought of being pregnant because we’ve been doing everything right, and I’m sad at the thought that I may have to delay my plans any longer. I’m also, however, happy at the idea of a new baby because I love being a mom and Charles and I do want to try for a boy one day. If I am pregnant, we’ll make it work, of course. I feel doubt this time, too. Not because I harbour any lingering uncertainty over my mothering skills. After all this time, and two happy children, I know I’m doing a wonderful job. I feel doubt only because this nausea I’m feeling seems much more like the stomach flu than a baby, and somewhere inside me, I know that’s all it is.

So, I’m not even going to take the test. I’m going to leave it in it’s simple container for another time. It’s not going to throw my emotions into turmoil anymore. I must say, though: I’ve never been so happy to have the stomach flu.