The In/Edible Egg

My relationship with the incredible (which literally means “unbelievable”—as in, “I don’t believe it’s…”) edible egg began in those hazy days of toddlerhood, the ones that leave impressions more than memories. I DO remember the eggs, though—soft-boiled eggs in a little glass bowl. I guess the bowl had to be glass so I wouldn’t miss a single disgusting angle of the stomach-churning view. Hated them!

Really, World—soft-boiled eggs were, like the lung fish, an evolutionary phase. When the cave people discovered fire and accidentally dropped that nasty raw egg in the soup, fished it out, and realized it was better half-cooked—well, they went on to cook it longer and realize that it was MUCH better thoroughly cooked. Our cuisine has evolved! Leave that culinary lung fish behind, develop opposable thumbs, and actually cook your food already!

Besides, the English like soft-boiled eggs. I know we shouldn’t generalize, but WHAT kind of food are the English known for again? Not the good kind, am I right?

Anyway, when I was growing up, we had cereal Monday, Wednesday, Friday and eggs on Tuesday and Thursday. We were a little regimented, I admit. Anyway, after a couple of incidents where I made myself or nearly made myself throw up the soft-boiled eggs, my mom started frying them. Still hated them!

I thought one part was okay—the lacy part at the edge where the egg white was cooked past recognition and tasted more of bacon grease than anything else….

How do I know that? I know that because I HAD to eat them. At least twice a week, until I left home. Even on the mornings when I barely had time to shovel breakfast down before going to a two-hour swim team practice. Can you even wrap your mind around what it was like to burp up greasy egg taste while power swimming the length of a lovely, chlorine-scented pool?

Needless to say, when I left home I went through a long, joyful, egg-free phase. I evolved.

Then it happened. Well, I was broke after college and not eating much protein—I wanted the taste of home…. It’s not my fault! I bought eggs. I mean, c’mon—a dozen for a dollar? That was, like, six meals for me. THAT fit my budget.

Okay, so I, being evolved, made them the least egg-like eggs in history. I dry scrambled them in itty-bitty, well-cooked pieces with kielbasa in the pan. (I never eat a mouthful of eggs alone—always with breakfast meat to take away the texture and taste. Yes, I know—WHY am I eating them again?)

But it was the taste of home. And it was protein. And I’m okay with that.

I didn’t eat many eggs in our early marriage, either. You see, I had the wisdom to marry a man with good taste, a lifelong egg-hater. Then we decide to have kids. My siblings came out fifty-fifty: I hate eggs, the next two fully belong to the Dark Egg Side, then my youngest sister hasn’t had one of those culinary Death Stars since the age of ten. So I figured we had a fifty-fifty chance with each kid.

And, yes, we two egg-haters birthed an egg-hater and…an egg-lover.

S. adores eggs. She’s never had a soft-boiled egg (we’ve evolved, people!), but she picked the next most horrible form of egg to like. Well, except for sunny-side up. Oh—or poached. Yeah, and hard-boiled would be worse. Whatever. She likes a gross form of egg. But I repeat myself.

S. likes her eggs delicately scrambled, yellow and tender, cooked in…butter.

OH, THE HUMANITY! IT’S HELL, PEOPLE, I’M TELLING YOU--HELL!

Have you smelled that $%&@??? Big A. and I literally have “dirty diaper face” from the split second the eggs hit the buttered pan to the exact moment when the dishes are done and the disposal sanitized. S. doesn’t have any idea what we’re making faces about. No idea. None.

This is love, people. We love our daughter.

I keep telling myself that S. doesn’t like very many forms of protein. This week, she’s spending six hours a day working out at circus camp (a nut-free environment where she can’t bring her other favorite form of protein—pb&j). She loves to start her day with a couple of scrambled eggs. I cook them for her.

I love her. I hate them eggs.

For the record, Little A., our egg-hater, has eaten fewer than ten bites of egg in his life.

It’s like Robin William’s character said in Dead Again, “Someone is either an egg-lover or an egg-hater. There's no in-between. The trick is to find out which one you are, and be that. If you're an egg-hater, you'll know.”

My apologies to everyone involved in Dead Again. What can I say? Good artists borrow; great artists steal.

Mom, Are You Okay?

Okay, I STILL don’t have time to blog, but sometimes funny stuff just happens and it would be a crime not to share.

So I’m on a never-ending deadline—sleep-deprived, cranky, and low on reserves. The kids are on day three of summer vacation. Big A. is out of town. ANNNDDDD…there’s a tropical storm.

Not that a storm’s a big deal, but we do get a wee bit housebound without the pool. A kid’s gotta burn the energy a kid’s gotta burn and all that. The good news is that, tropical systems notwithstanding, we had to make a foray out into the wet to feed the scrapbook habit, so that used up about 0.00009% of their energy…and about 90.99991% of mine.

So I was hiding from the kids in the bathroom for a minute. Totally hiding. Didn’t even have to go. Just checking Facebook.

Oh, look, funny dog video! I play the video.

 [Now you play it--with the sound up.]

Heeheehee! That reminds me of our production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. I should share it. I play the video again. [Do it--it's funny!]

I start to hear hushed voices. They gradually come closer.

“That was in the yard!” Little A. sounds nervous.

“I really think that was coming from Mommy’s bathroom. Mommy, are you okay?” S. calls out.

Um, not really. I’m laughing so hard that I can’t breathe, let alone answer you. That was NOT me, you goofballs!

“Mommy?” Little A. sounds really nervous. The gasping noises probably aren’t helping.

“Mommy, is that you?”

“Be right out!” I gasp, turning on the faucet to wash my hands.

As they walk away I hear, “Mommy sounded like an angry animal!”

Maybe I’m a bit punchy, but that was the best laugh ever!

The Scales of Parenting

I’m still too busy to breathe, but I wanted to send out a report from the front lines of life in our house.

Every time I think I’ve performed every sleep-deprived, distracted-parent goof in the book, I manage to do a new one. Today I completely walked away from a faucet running full-bore into a plugged sink. For probably about twenty minutes.

What was the worst part? Was it that sinking feeling when I remembered I’d left the faucet on? Nope. It wasn’t that moment, because that moment never happened.

Instead, I walked by the kitchen door and thought, What’s that noise? Is water boiling on the stove? Are the sprinklers on outside? I didn’t realize what I’d actually done until I walked into the kitchen and saw it!

So, on the scales of parenting, I count that on the negative side.

In neutral territory—as in I’m not sure WHAT this means—Big A. found a way to work early ‘90s pop into helping S. with her composition homework. S.’s piano teacher asked her to compose a piece in C minor, three quarter time, using both staccato and legato. (This would be why only Big A. can help her. I can barely remember that, let alone wrap my mind around it!)

So, S. got stuck. Big A. sat down to help her organize her thoughts—you know, prioritize. Channeling Big Audio Dynamite II, he said, “The only important thing these days is rhythm and melody.”

Apparently, it was a good starting point, but I really don’t know what to make of that!

And, on the win side of the scale…well, sometimes I just can’t believe how lucky we get.

Thanks to scrapbooking night in Girl Scouts, S. fell in love with the whole process. On the first day of vacation, she wanted to buy paper and stickers with her own money so she could make some pages. As we shopped, Little A. fell in love with scrapbooking, too. And the end result?

Our kids are dying to stay busy this summer doing chores so they can earn money to buy scrapbook supplies, which will keep them even busier making scrapbooks. And that also means…they will do all the scrapbooking for us!

Is that not just a massive parenting hat trick? Holy cow, we’re lucky.

May the scales of parenting ever tip that far in your favor!

The Hairy Month of May

One of the advantages to freelance editing is that I can tweak my work schedule to accommodate life. Theoretically. For example, theoretically, I could work harder when the kids are in school and sock away some income so I can take a good vacation over the summer…theoretically.

Being an eternal optimist, I planned my year based on that theory.

Wa-a-ay back in January when I scheduled my projects for the spring. I decided to load up on work for the five months before school let out. This had the added advantage of decreasing the wait time for my clients as well, so it seemed like a win-win.

In reality, that theory has been blown out of the water. Plans never survive contact with the enemy—or reality--and all that.

Little A. is, to our delight, taking the rest of his pre-kindergarten year off. He stays home with me all day right now, which has been mostly the proverbial blessing and a little of the proverbial curse.

I am blessed that he flourishes, grows, learns, and shares delightful humor, wisdom, and observations with me every day. I am blessed that I stop and smell the roses—or in his case, look at the cool trucks—much more than I would otherwise. And I’m blessed to remember how sweet it is to have a little helper all day. I’m happy I get another taste of that companionship before they both spend more time away from the nest than in it.

But.

I have somehow set myself up to edit 75,000 words and evaluate 800,000 words in about five weeks. Just to give you a little perspective, that’s like reading and evaluating four books the size of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. With an active, curious five-year-old in tow. Therein lies the teeny bit of a curse.

Don’t worry, I’ll do it and I’ll do it well, but it’s definitely brought about some changes here. The kids have picked up a few more 'do-it-myself tasks' (which they were probably due to start anyway). Big A. is taking on a bit more of the family management. The housework has become completely optional.

And I? I am disappearing into what is known as the edit cave for another few weeks. And stocking up on caffeine.

See you in a few weeks!

Mothers' Day 2013

So, this year, Mothers' Day got me writing for S. It's a bit long, but I hope it's a quick read. Happy Mothers' Day to all the wonderful moms out there!

To My Daughter

An army lives in me

A host of women

I have been

A toddler stops in wonder

As a white horse gallops

Through her woods

A dressed-up bride

Beams satisfaction

As the camera clicks

Better late than never

A leggy girl masters

School and her bike

A bookworm spends recess

Jacketless, oblivious to all

A 700-page book on her lap

And passes night drives

Reading by streetlights or

Watching the following moon

A granddaughter sits demure

In a pastel Izod dress

Seen and seldom heard

A wanna-be tomboy rides

Her banana seated bike

Cross country

And belly crawls after

Her brother down ditches

Playing soldier

A mama-to-be names

And nurtures bears, gators

Dogs and guinea pigs

And sometimes siblings

Earning a rep—and cash—

As a go-to sitter

A good girl, a geek

Stumbles her way

Through high school

As gracefully as

An AT-AT on logs

Minus the ewoks

A tender hearted

Girl faces agony

Digs in, holds tight

A small town girl

Gets glimpses of

A bigger, brighter world

A young woman feels

Her power in black boots,

Flannel and cut off jeans

Or builds costumes

In a basement, singing

In crop top and hippie skirt

Or battles classroom frat boys

Over interpretations as

Dust motes float in sun

A battered dreamer

Finds a home in joy

Living in true love

A graduate borrows money

Loads a truck and leaps

To a new town, a new life

A starving artist shares

Hugs, high art, cheap pizza

And drama with friends

A fiancée doubts

--herself, not him—

Reaching for what’s right

Two better halves

Plunge in—new town

New life again

A wife learns equality

In gracious giving and

Receiving

One of a couple

She embraces the town

Music, friends, fun

A defeated warrior

Tackles martial arts

Learns quiet courage

A hopeful mother’s heart

Germinates, longing

For something bigger

Alone, a new mother

In another new town

Endures, survives

A less-new mother

Revels in joy, in

Sunlight and soap bubbles

A growing mother

Finds her sea legs

Lifts her head, looks around

An athlete comes

Into her own

Tackling obstacles

An organizer

Leaps tall buildings,

Takes a breather

A poet sniffs the air

Yawns, stretches and

Looks around

There are other women, too

Broken women, strong women

Women huddled in the dark

Saying, “How can I?”

But they did, they do

And so I am here

And you are here

They chose and we are

Beautiful

All these women

And hundreds more

Walk with me every day

I hear their voices

Know their minds

Borrow their talents

And every day

I add a sister

To their order

I love the women

I have been since

Your birth, my daughter

I love you

And so I say,

My daughter

Be beautiful women

Strong, fearless, weird

Loving, open, and brave

Be yourself in all

Your infinite capacity

And wonder

The women you are

Will carry you

And lift you up

Grant you wisdom,

Ease your sorrows

And elevate your joys

Be loving women,

My daughter, be women

Who love you

46 Hours

Just a quick post from the (I think) luckiest mom in the world! A typical blonde mistake on my part has become a real treat, thanks to my amazing husband and kids….

As of right this moment, the dishes are done, the dog is walked, the house is neat, our we-never-wanted-them white floors are spotless, our counters are crumbless, the beds freshly made, the towels clean, and every stitch of fabric in the house is clean, folded and put away (except for the clothes on my back).

And all of it will stay that way for 46 hours.

Let me repeat: ALL OF IT WILL STAY THAT WAY.

How did this happen? I’ll tell you how: I unwittingly scheduled an editing deadline for Mothers’ Day weekend. Yep.

So my sweet husband turned that oops into a gift—he’s taking the kids to his parents for the weekend. They’ll celebrate with his mom, then come home and have Mothers’ Day dinner with me. And I get 46 magical hours ALONE (with my puppy).

Yes, I’ll be working, but I can sleep when I want, eat when and what I want, in whatever part of the house I want, and I can FINISH MY THOUGHTS. For two whole days. Ho-ly cow.

Of course I will enjoy the heck out of every single second of this experience, but already I can see what’s on the horizon—I will miss them.

The housekeeping perfection is just plain unnatural; the silence unnerving. As I grew up, I dreamed of being a mom, and those dreams included jokes, laughter, hugs, messes, chaos, more laughter, more hugs. There was nothing Martha Stewart or Pinterest-worthy about it. I dreamed of a banged up coffee table witnessing toddler games and elementary projects; I dreamed of walls with dings that tell stories. I dreamed of random objects with bizarre histories stuck behind the sofa.

That dream came true.

This little respite will be just what I needed, my chance to remember my dream and how lucky I am in life. I can’t imagine a better gift.

I hope everyone has a fantastic weekend—may it bring you something you needed!

Molten Mothering

The volcano references just keep flowing here. We are a hotbed of volcanic imagery, a virtual mudslide of comparisons with the occasional lava bomb of humor.

Of course, we don’t like real lava bombs. They’re scary.

I never expected it, but all my newly gained knowledge of our earth’s steamy interior has been a parenting windfall.

For example, Little A. has wrestled with allergies all winter. His ears get stopped up and then he whines and whines and whines…and whines. When I’m feeling charitable, I remind myself that he can’t hear his own voice. He whines again. I tell myself it’s really uncomfortable when your ears perpetually stuffed up. He whines some more. I count to ten and suggest he should blow his nose.

“I don’t wa-ant to blow by dose!” he whines. That’s Stuffy-Whiney for “I don’t want to blow my nose!”

I count to twenty. “But it will clear out your ears.”

“Ho-ow will it do THA-AT?” he whines.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7—Inspiration wells up in the crater of my mind. “Hey, buddy. Your head is like a volcano.”

Stick with me here, he’s quiet and looking at me. “You have lots of magma inside—that’s your mucous, right?”

He’s still quiet.

“And then your nose is the main vent, right? That’s where we want the magma—the mucous—to come out. We DON’T want it to come out the side vents—those are your ears. So, if you blow your nose, all the stuff will come out the main vent.”

And then he…smiled. He smiled! And he blew his nose. And angels sang. And at bedtime, he asked for a volcano song.

A volcano song???

And, once again, Hephaestus—or someone—smiled on me. I sang Jimmy Buffett’s “Volcano” and he was happy.

Volcano parenting for the win.