One Bad Egg

I should probably start with a warning. This is gross. Are you still here? I wasn’t kidding.

Okay, I’m over warnings.

I was making breakfast, as is my want, and it was a Sunday like a Sunday is supposed to be. There was a fresh batch of coffee being pressed by the French and the Times was waiting patiently for me on the floor. The comics were getting antsy. Especially Marmaduke. I swear, that dog can’t sit still for ANYTHING.

There may have been music on, or it may have been the sweet, sultry tones of Shannon Sharpe waxing poetic on football and the demons that haunt it. I wasn’t really paying attention.

In case you’re wondering, the gross part hasn’t happened yet.

I was standing at the stove and I glanced towards the playroom that sits adjacent to the kitchen. I saw a naked baby butt and heard something about poop. I stepped through the door to investigate. I didn’t see any poop.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” I asked. I decided not to wonder why I was seeing naked baby butt instead of the diapered baby butt that had passed me just moments ago in the kitchen while I was preparing myself for something gross that still hadn’t happened. It was Sunday and thinking was for the workweek.

“Outside,” was the answer.

“You pooped outside?” I asked. Stranger things have happened. I walked to the door and looked into the yard. “I don’t see any poop.”

“Here,” he said, with such a calm sense of knowing that I was inclined to believe him.

I glanced to where the here was and noticed a piece of poop on the ground. There was also a piece in his hand. He pushed open the door and he threw it outside.

“Poop outside,” he said, and he was right.

I went back into the kitchen and washed my hands even though I hadn’t touched anything. He was sent to the bathroom for a more thorough scrubbing.

That part wasn’t really important. I just threw it in to scare you off. Besides, what’s the point of your kid throwing handfuls of crap into the morning air if you don’t share it with people that can’t take a hint.

It was still Sunday morning. There was still coffee ready to be enjoyed and a paper waiting to be read. Marmaduke was beside himself.

I had been cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. There were three yokes, milk and asiago cheese involved in the project. It was all so promising.

Seriously, this is your last chance.

I cracked the next egg and watched as the yoke and white fell into the bowl, except that there wasn’t any white. There was red.

The egg was full of blood, red strings of sadness stuck in the thick of the matter. Suddenly Sunday seemed much more grimacing, darker and cruel. I held my breath and closed my eyes as I dumped the contents of the bowl into the garbage disposal and then ran to the bathroom convinced that I was about to be sick.

I wasn’t. I wasn’t sick and I wasn’t hungry, not anymore. I fixed my coffee, made sure I saw diaper, turned up Shannon Sharpe and opened the paper. Marmaduke was right where he should be and I almost smiled as he jumped, covered in rain, through an open window. It wasn’t funny, just like it always isn’t funny, but it was the way it should be, and slowly my Sunday came back into the light.

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