Gwen has most definitely inherited that family trait (my side) that causes one to purposely mess with the minds of family members. You know, just for a private laugh at the expense of someone else’s frustration. Initially I was worried. I thought that she might actually be some kind of idiot, but in the midst of one of her very Gwen-like mind f*&# sessions, I realized that the kid is just messing with me!
Lately, she’s really into “cooking” her own breakfast. In reality this simply entails standing on a stool at the counter and cracking eggs into a bowl. It was during a recent egg cracking session in the midst of the morning rush that Gwen embarked on her plan to toy with me. She saw my preoccupation with the siblings and realized I wasn’t on top of my mental game. She moved in for the kill. Well played, grasshopper. Well played.
“Mom, is an egg an egg?”
I stopped struggling with Joe’s zipper for a moment and looked at her. My head said, what the #$^% is this kid blathering about now? My mouth said, “What?”
“I said….Is…An…Egg…An…Egg-ah?” Notice the emphasis on the snotty ‘ah’ at the end of the word egg, as if it now contains two syllables.
I attempted to ignore her snotty attitude and decipher her train of thought. Without making eye contact, she continued cracking away and picking shells from the egg mixture while not so patiently awaiting my response. Okay, so I just threw this out there… “An egg is a chicken embryo…kind of a baby chicken before it turns into a baby chicken.”
“But what is an egg, really?”
“It’s an oval?” I said, but it somehow turned into a hopeful question. Oh, please let that have been the answer to her deeply philosophical question so we can move on with the day.
“But is it an egg?!” she was nearly shouting at this point and holding out her hands, either mocking me or demonstrating her frustration at my sheer stupidity.
Joe stopped writhing around on the floor for a moment and shouted, “Gwen, eggs are baby chickens that the mom chicken poops out!” Well, thank God someone else is becoming as exacerbated with this line of questioning as I am.
Looking slightly freaked out, Gwen shreiked, “You mean eggs are chicken poop?!”
Not wanting to open the whole reproduction can of worms, I rubbed my eyes and entered that stage where I was about to lose my mind.
“No. Eggs are not chicken poop.”
“So…is an egg an egg?”
“Yes, Gwen. An egg is an egg. It’s an egg when it’s an oval, it’s an egg when the mom-chicken poops it out, and it’s an egg when you crack it. It’s an egg when you scramble, fry, poach or hard boil it. It’s an egg when you eat it. It’s an egg if you drop it. IT’S ALWAYS A STINKIN’ EGG!”
I walked into the pantry in a huff and attempted to deep breathe myself into a state of relaxation. Mid-breath, I heard Gwen whispering to Joe. “Joe…hey, Joe! I’m teasing mommy”, she said in a voice that was dripping with delight. I peeked around the corner and saw her standing next to Joe, triumphantly giggling with her hand covering her mouth. ZING! She got me.