Because the internet NEEDS to know what happened with the eggs…

30 May

You are all too great.  I’ve had so many suggestions about how to handle Maura’s egg adoption situation.  One of you asked the next day how it was going, and I shared that she had adopted twelve more eggs out of the refrigerator.

Seriously, nothing gets teenagers moving more quickly than shouting “OMG Maura’s eggs aren’t in the fridge anymore!”

(They were outside, on the patio, enjoying some sun.)

(FYI – eggs from Whole Foods are much more sturdy than their generic grocery store counterparts.)

But I had a plan!  A genius plan!  I found tiny birds in the “make your own wreath” section of Michael’s, and bought some yarn to knit a nest.  When I went to check out, the cashier did her “Oh, these are cute, what are you going to do with them?”

“Well…you see…my daughter learned about the life cycle of the chicken and has now adopted eggs…”

The cashier actually put her head down on the counter as she laughed.

I was so excited by my plan.  I could carefully crack each egg, wash and disinfect the shells, place each tiny bird into the egg….genius, right?

Except my husband, the voice of reason, said no.  Actually, I think it was more “OH GOD NO!” and went on about how Maura would be looking for chicks every time we cracked an egg and may be put off of eggs for life, and want to buy eggs every time we went to the store hoping maybe this one would have a chick in it, and it would all just be a horror show of eggs…

He had a point.

Then I thought “Well, maybe we can trade the eggs for the little birds in the nest creation.”  Kind of like a consolation prize.

So she got home from school.  I brought up her eggs.

“Hey Maura, about your eggs…”

“My eggs!”

“Yeah, honey, they’re store eggs.  They’re eggs for cooking.  They’re not chicken eggs” (yeah, I know, but she doesn’t).

Maura made a confused noise.

“The eggs from the store don’t make chicks.” I explained further, grabbing the cursed “Chicken Life Cycle” page she brought home.  “See, you need a mommy chicken for the egg.  Store eggs are just for cooking, they don’t make chicks.”

Somehow, Maura understood what I was saying….because she howled in disappointment, grabbed the Chicken Life Cycle page out of my hand, ripped it into pieces, then crumpled the pieces and threw them on the floor before stomping on them and screaming some more.

I should be happy she didn’t also spit on them.

dead to her

dead to her

I then produced the bribe.  “But look at what I made you – a nest with birds!”


She flopped onto the sofa in sobs…then noticed the Old Navy bag with new clothes.


She really is an almost-teenager, because she instantly perked up at some new clothes, and life went on.  Because Maura’s disappointments are loud and dramatic, but quickly forgotten as she goes off to the next new thing.  Like a new outfit.  Or digging in the dirt.  Or watching the two guys the property manager sent over to move the boulder back into place.  That was fascinating.  Until she thought they were going to take it away and she yelled “My rock!”


No girls were scarred for life in the making of this post.  The same can't be said of the parents.

No girls were scarred for life in the making of this post. The same can’t be said of the parents.

I’ve got to stop trying to take Maura to Whole Foods

28 May

“I’m going to the store.” I stupidly said out loud.

“Wait for me!” Maura said, grabbing her backpack, shoving a pony into it.  “I’m ready!”


The two teens looked at me with that questioning look of “Are you taking her, or should we brace for shrieking?”


“I know I’m going to regret this…” I said, causing hope to spread across the teens faces.  “Maura, we’re going to go buy food.”


Shit. “No, we’re going to the grocery store, not a restaurant.  Just going to get groceries to bring home.”


Now mind you, the last three times I pulled into Whole Foods parking lot, there was screaming and hysteria and flailing – and even then, the third time, I left the girl in the car with teens and a movie to distract her from the fact that we weren’t going to Chipolte across the parking lot.  Because ONE TIME, I took her to Chipolte for lunch before grocery shopping, and now she wants to go there all the time.

You can’t blame her, their chips are delicious.

But I’m a glutton for punishment and didn’t feel like making the teens deal with a shrieking Maura at the window as I drove off, so I took yet another one for the teen and took Maura with me.  Maura was happy in the car as I explained we were going grocery shopping – no restaurant, grocery shopping – repeatedly, hoping something would kick in.  I got all the way into the parking spot at the side of the building and put the car into park before she let out a seriously ear-splitting scream of protest.


I calmly got out of the car and decided to just wait it out as my ears bleed.  That’s my latest strategy, waiting it out.  No begging, no deal making, just standing there, waiting, calmly and quietly.

She curled up into the seat.  “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”


I opened her door.  She tried to close it.  “The door stays open Maura.” I stated.

She protested.  “I WANT FOOD!”

“There’s a whole store of food right there.” I stated.  “You can pick out any food you want.  But that’s where we’re going.”



Then I sat on the curb in the shade and waited.  Really, it was a lovely spot, away from prying eyes and staring shoppers.  She calmed down.  I waited.  I heard the seat belt unbuckle.  “Okay Mom.” she said.

“Ready to go shopping?”


And just like that, her emotions were played out.  I let her get a cart, and explained we only needed one cart, I didn’t need one too.  We started getting foods.  She got giddy at the sight of the cantaloupe display.  She picked out sausages at the meat counter, I got rotisserie chicken for dinner.  I explained we needed milk and even though she didn’t want to go that way, she followed.

Then we passed the eggs.


Um…okay.  We can always use eggs.  I got a carton.


“Do you want to pick out eggs?” I asked.

“YES!” and with that, she reached in and picked out one of the little cartons that contain six eggs.

Weird, I thought.  Maybe she wanted the cute eggs.  Who knew what went through that brain of her sometimes.  But she was delighted with her eggs.  We went to check out and she told the cashier “MY EGGS!”  And then the bagger – “MY EGGS!”  She kept an eye on them as they went into the top of one bag.

Then we got gelato, because why not and because she had been so good.  We sat outside as she ate her gelato and then half of mine.


Every so often, she’d ask – “My eggs?”

“They’re in the bag, safe.” I’d say.

We finished our gelato and went to the car, where she pulled out the little carton.  “My EGGS!” she said.

“Oh, let’s leave them in the bag, they’ll be safer.” I suggested.



I relented and let her hold the carton of eggs in the car…


…and she was SO happy!

…and then she hugged the carton and said lovingly “My eeeegggggs.”


…and a sense of horror suddenly filled me, as I recalled a half-crumpled piece of paper I’d pulled out of her backpack that morning….


The words “the life cycle of the chicken” flashed through my head.  My daughter hugged her egg carton again.  I realized that she thought she was buying chick-producing eggs.  I cursed the school and their stupid life cycle science lessons.  I prayed that I wouldn’t make a sudden stop that would cause the eggs to go flying through the car.  My brain raced as I tried to figure out how the hell I was going to explain to Maura that her precious bundle of eggs weren’t going to produce chicks.

She carried them into the house.  “Look Daddy!  EGGS!”

“Yes, those are eggs.” my clueless spouse said.  “Put them in the fridge.”


“She learned about the life cycle of the chicken.” I said, sharing the horror of the situation with my husband.

“Oh nooooooo.”

We convinced Maura that her eggs would be safer in the fridge and she relented.  But this morning, I woke up and found her sitting in front of the tv with her carton of egg buddies next to her.  Which is better than her sitting ON the carton of eggs, which is what we worried about last night.  Then I convinced her that the eggs had to stay at home, that they couldn’t go to school with her.  You’re welcome teaching staff.

Now…now I’m just trying to figure out what the next plan of action is.  I’m considering pin holing each egg and draining them and filling them with wax.  Because, you know, THAT makes sense.  Or maybe replacing them with wooden eggs.  I’m also trying to figure out which saint is the Patron Saint of “Oh Dear God, please don’t let her hide eggs in the house!” and finding the perfect sangria recipe while reconsidering ever taking her out of the house again and explaining to her teachers why they shouldn’t try to teach her SO much.


freaking eggs.

Sewergate – The Continuing Story

15 May

Wednesday, I left you with the glorious mental images of a hole of poop in my front yard.  However, the angels smiled upon me, and a man appeared in a white van in my driveway, got out, went to the hole, measured stuff…and left.

Then came back a bit later, went to the hole, where he spent an hour making angry noises and yelling incomprehensibly from where I was hiding in the house.  Because when he first pulled up and I went to the window to see who was out there, he glared at me.  So I hid from the angry man, who coughed as if he had Black Lung.  Or Ebola. Or, you know, one of those plagues you get from hanging around holes full of poop.   Sadly, the latter is completely possible, since we provided him with the hole of said poop.

He never came to the door.  He just angrily fixed the sewer pipe and left.

Meanwhile, another crew came by and dropped off backfill for the hole, which was to be put in the hole once the line was fixed.  I ran a load of laundry, mainly to make sure the line was actually fixed, and once the hole did not fill with soapy bleachy water, I ran all the washing appliances in the house and waited for those who would fill the hole to return.

They didn’t.

The next morning – after trying to get a very angry tantruming Maura to the bus, and catching her back the back of the shirt as she ran blindly howling down the front walk towards the gaping hole – I sent a message to our property manager to give to the plumbers.  “Come fix this hole before my disabled daughter kills herself or me in it!”

The property manager sent all his apologies, and contacted the plumbing company, which stated that someone was on their way.  Someone did come – and filled the small, non-life-threatening hole on the other side of the driveway, where the water meter was.

But the giant gaping hole at the end of the sidewalk?  That they left, like an obnoxious crater of post-modern art.

Luckily, the Shovel of Safety is still doing a commendable job.  And my friend brought me a bottle of wine and chocolate, because she is a true friend.


A plumber just pulled up to the house.

I’m obviously hallucinating and need to go to the ER. Send flowers and sangria.


The hole has been filled…ish.  See, somehow, despite taking dirt out of the hole, and dropping off a bunch of filler dirt, there wasn’t enough dirt to fill the hole.  We’re pretty sure the first hole filler used some of that dirt to make the giant mound of dirt over at the much smaller hole, which now resembles a small burial mound.

So the guy kind of made a new hole to fill that hole more.

Oh sure, I said “They put some over here <pointing to landscaping> so you can take from there” – but I didn’t think he’d dig down into the area.

He was also kind enough to leave all the broken sewer bits.  We wouldn’t want them in the hole.  No, that could be bad.  So he just left them next to the boulder that was pulled out of the landscaping last year.  I’ve decided to make a sculpture out of the broken bits of sewer pipe, and title it “Oh Shit”.  It should auction for thousands, right?

sadly, this is the improvement

sadly, this is the improvement


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