Head Egg Guy

April 18, 2020

I’m laughing now, but a few days ago it was no laughing matter. We had just pulled the gator into the garage from feeding goats and collecting chicken eggs. The hens had given us a particularly good yield with a nice collection of warm brown and pink eggs and a few muted blue ones. As I turned the gator off, I sounded orders that went something like this. “Everyone take off boots, wash hands, get a snack, and it’s rest time. Go straight into the house.”

Allen, my dear youngest, has taken quite an interest in being the Head Egg Guy. He’s in the three year old stage where he vehemently insists he can do everything himself whether it’s putting on his own socks, getting his own spoon at supper, or collecting his own chicken eggs. Most parents say their strong-willed children are destined to be future leaders, but my kid is already the Head Egg Guy so I’m not sure what his future holds.

Since assuming his new self-appointed position, we have had quite a few cracks and losses. But none can compare to what happened this particular day. Our Head Egg Guy insisted he was the man for the job of carrying the eggs into the house that afternoon. I agreed mostly because I didn’t have the energy to argue with a three year old. I headed straight into the house and thought the boys were following behind. I took off my overalls and was planning a shower when a screaming commotion erupted on the front porch. Wait, what? I know my kids are inside washing hands and preparing for rest time, so who on earth could be having a throw down screaming fit on the porch? It escalated to the point where I had no time for pants.

Let me just describe the scene: Emmett had broken raw eggs glopping through his fingers and was screaming, “Everett broke them all! Look what he did!” Everett was jumping up and down shouting, “I didn’t know! Allen left them there!” My Head Egg Guy at this point was nonchalantly claiming innocence with an air of superiority. Standing in the doorway with no pants and being the composed and dignified mother that I am, I joined in the yelling and started chunking the cracked dripping eggs off the front porch. The twins followed suit, and then my Head Egg Guy grabbed the few unbroken good eggs and threw them off the porch as well. In the end we may have lost all the eggs that day, but we learned some valuable lessons: Three year olds can’t do everything. People shouldn’t swing enthusiastically on a glider bench with a container of eggs. And most importantly, always keep pants on until kids are settled inside the house.