Yesterday I blew out 10 eggs in order to start making Easter eggs--cut a hole on each side, stick a seafood pick in each one to stir the yolk, and then blow from one end until the egg is hollow. Steve came home from work and I proudly showed him what I had done, which is when he proceeded to show me a better way to do it. The eggs looked so much more Martha-like when he did it. Darn it, this man does everything better than me. Anyhow, I hadn't blown eggs since my egg baby days which reminded me of a funny story.
When I was in 9th grade the Florida public school curriculum required every student to take a life management course. I really only remember the sex ed. part since that's the one all of us awkward, puberty-riddled kids were anticipating with giggling, baited breath. One assignment was to blow out an egg, give it a name, and carry this hollow egg baby around with you everywhere for a week without breaking it. By doing this you would see how difficult it was to have a baby and wouldn't get pregnant as a teenager.
Right. I don't know where they come up with this stuff.
Anyhoo. I named my baby Skyler Ethan Mackenzie Mariani. What a mouthful. For the record I now find that name hideous, but I digress. My teacher, Mrs. Willis, put a purple mark on little Skyler (so she would know it was the original) and I went about my merry 9th-grade life.
I lasted about two days until walking back to the car in the Publix parking lot and BAM! Skyler was smashed in tiny, horrifying pieces against the bumper (Marmee always said to look where you're going...). Undeterred, I went home, blew out another egg, rustled up a purple marker and forged the original. No one was the wiser.
I wish I could say that was the end of my bad mothering, but it was as if the floodgates had opened. I killed poor Skyler no less than 12 times. My mom was yelling at me that I was wasting all her eggs. (But this assignment was like a 1/3 of our overall grade! I had no choice.) The worst was when I broke Skyler during lunch, right before my 5th period life management class where Mrs. Willis would be coming around and "checking" on the babies. I had to think fast, so before class, I put the little blanket over Skyler's crushed body. When Mrs. Willis arrived at my desk I said, "Shhhhhhh, he's sleeping..." and just smiled angelically (maternally?) at her. She smiled back and moved on.
Fast forward 11 years and Mrs. Willis was now our instructor for the pre-cana class Steve and I were required to take for a Catholic wedding. I know, karma. But--I now consider her to be one of my mentors and love seeing her at church when I visit home. She is so kind. And I love reminiscing about egg babies with her.