I found this unhatched robin’s egg on the lawn, abandoned for whatever reason. Being the person I am, I couldn’t walk away. I cupped my hand and carefully lifted the egg from the grass, nesting it on my palm for the short walk inside. I set it in a small ceramic pinch bowl and considered it for a few minutes. Did the egg plummet from a nearby nest? Is it a stolen egg dropped by a panicky, clumsy predator? Worst of all, did it pop out of the old girl while she was worm hunting?
The answers aren’t important. These past few weeks have been havoc on my patience and will. My husband answers my complaints of every day veering madly off course and what about all my plans and goals with ‘this is the stuff of life.’
Buck up, sister. I’m glad I have his voice of reason even if it sometimes makes me want to strangle until an egg pops out.
Sometimes it’s just too many lost eggs, too many scatter-brained middle-age mother moments, too many predators peering in the blinds, too many embarrassing moments when you’re worm hunting and something unexpected pops out of your back end.