Scrambled Eggs

This was my morning. I heard Joel prattling on at 5:45 AM. I stumbled out of bed to do the teeth/contact routine and mumbled to Paul (who was almost out the door), "That's not Owen, is it?"

"No, he's still asleep."

I finished getting myself together and then heard Paul say, "Oh, yeah, Owen's awake. Mind if I say goodbye to him?"

I nodded, and rinsed off my toothbrush as he headed upstairs. A moment later, Paul yelled, "Nancy, get up here!"

I ran upstairs, and saw Owen and Joel standing next to each other in Joel's crib. Joel was bouncing up and down, happy as can be, as was Owen. Both of them, pleased as punch.

It may have been the cutest thing I've ever seen. I didn't have my camera, so I'll attempt to recreate it and post it tomorrow.

I sent Owen downstairs, and Paul headed off to work. While I was getting Joel dressed, which was, as always, a full-contact sport, I heard disturbing crashes and clanking from downstairs. I'm pretty sure I heard the dishwasher open at least once.

Joel now dressed, I lingered with him for a moment, letting him gnaw on my shoulder before heading downstairs to face what was sure to be a Big Hot Mess.

On my way downstairs, Owen met me, gripping a raw egg. "Mommy, I'm making scrambled eggs," he cried.

Serenity Now.

I rushed downstairs, set up Joel with a mountain of Cheerios, and saw that Owen had managed to get out a bowl, a gallon of milk, cheese, a frying pan, and a carton of eggs. On further inspection, I saw the shell of an egg on the kitchen table, and the gelatinous remains of an egg in the kitchen sink. Yes, Owen decided that he was Bobby Frickin' Flay.

"Owen, do you want a scrambled egg this morning?" I asked, forgetting once again that three years old do not detect nuance or sarcasm.

"Yes, yes I do, yes I do," he replied, bouncing up and down with each word.

"Fine." At this point, I was ready to take all three of them and burrow under the covers in the fetal position. So, so tired. But, there were eggs to be made, another child to dress, a baby to feed, coffee to be made, things to accomplish. The morning was rolling, like it or not.

In yoga, they talk about setting an intention for one's practice. You can choose to focus on strength or balance or whatever. The point is to have a goal in mind. I've found this to be true with parenting, too. I have to set an intention. Am I going to be kind, loving, patient, compassionate? Not by myself.

I've learned to set my intention by praying. While the coffee brewed, the Cheerios flew, and at least some of the eggs settled in Owen's tummy, I set my intention: to lean on God to get me through another morning. I prayed for grace, for wisdom, and for patience. I set an intention, because if I did not, I would be as broken and scattered as Owen's scrambled eggs.