Last night I lost control of my right arm, which dug the pee-stick back out of the bin for the umpteenth time and held it before my straining eyes. H came into the bathroom, and I held it out to him. He looked at it in poor light from several feet away for approximately one sixteenth of a second, which isn’t playing the game at all, and said ‘one line.’
Anyway, I asked him what he thought would be a good idea, pee-stick-wise, and he mentioned it might help to hold out until Saturday morning. Saturday will be 13dpo, and I have never in my life got to 13dpo without at the very least spotting prettily, so Saturday Might Mean Something, hormone level-wise. Despite, or possibly because, of his spectacular lack of skill at pee-stick obsessing, I decided to go with it. I did not pee on a stick Friday morning. I had a shower and went to work.
Naturally, I took tampons with me and I spent the day visiting the disabled loo at 37-minute intervals to check my gusset.
And I did not pee on a stick when I got home either.
The old ute feels heavy and unpleasant, like an unexploded grenade, which is not helping.