Monthly Archives: September 2012

The Incredible Un-Edible Egg

A few weeks ago a friend of mine sent me a message about something she’d seen on Pinterest: how to make a naked egg.
I thought it would be a fun project, but I’ll admit that mostly…I just wanted to take pictures.

First we soaked the eggs in vinegar and watched the bubbles for a while.
It’s fun because the bubbles occasionally make the egg spin.


You’ll note that we started with three, but ended up with two.
User error.  (My bad.)

After a day or so, I rinsed them off and put them in fresh vinegar.
If she shell wipes off in your hand the first time, a second soaking may not be necessary.


I would go into what we talked about, but I pretty much just expounded on what he said in the video.

I will say that it’s fairly squishy and bouncy at this point, but one over-zealous bounce and you’ll have a big mess!


After I’d taken 7,000 pictures, we soaked one egg in corn syrup.
We only had dark syrup, so ours looks even more disgusting!
We soaked the other in a water-blue food coloring mix.

We talked a little about diffusion and osmosis.
(Don’t be impressed…I couldn’t remember too much about those, so I watched this refresher.)

The one in corn syrup shriveled up and – get this – the yolk got hard.
It was super gross.


The other one became swollen and very, very blue.

Earlier (when it was still just a plain ol’ nekkid egg) I let the children do a few squeeze tests.
But once it was full of blue?  Not so much.
Since I’d forgotten to take a squishy picture though, I smooshed it a few times myself.

We wanted to prove that the colored water was actually going into the egg and not coloring the outside like at Easter.
Our hypothesis was that if it was just coloring the membrane, then the yolk would still be yellow.
BUT if the food coloring was actually going into the egg, it would make the yolk look green.
Guess what?
We were right.




If I Were A Raindrop

My daughter writes like I do.
My son writes like my husband.
She uses lots of descriptive words.
He keeps it short and sweet.
I have to remind her that more isn’t always better.
I have to give him a sentence minimum.

I give them a topic each morning and they write about it.
Sometimes they are narratives, sometimes opinion pieces, or maybe explanatory.
But we begin our day with a writing prompt of some sort.
Yesterday’s was: “If I were a raindrop…”

If I were a raindrop
I wold be in
the cloud’s. And then
I wold get smushet. And I would be
falling. And I would
be in the sky. And
then on the grownd.
And I would
become a puttle and
I would dry and
just lie there. And
I would be happy. 
Befor I dry
chilgren will come
to jump on me. And
I will have fun.
And I would
be lieing there. And
I would be me.
And then I will
dry up. And no
one at all will
jump on me.
And I will
not be seen. 

There are two themes in her writing: being a princess or “just being me”.
I love that so often she is happy with just being her.
How can we bottle that up?
How can we preserve that?
When does that slip away?

This is not about pencils.

I sharpened a whole box of pencils just because I wanted to.
I like the smell of pencils.
I like the little rippled shavings.
I like the perfectly pointy tips.

But after I sharpened 24 pencils I wondered why.
I never, ever use them.

I type.
I like the clickity-click of the keyboard,
The sound of my nails brushing the keys.
I love how fast the words spill forth
(and yet they still can’t keep up with my mind).

But you know what I like most?
When I write with a pencil
(or heavens-to-betsy a pen!)
and I make a mistake?
You see it.
You can see the scribble-through,
The shadows of letters gone awry,
The dust of words now wiped away.

I know I’m not a perfect writer,
But I want you to think I am.
And so I type it up all neat and pretty
With (hopefully) no mistakes.

I know I’m not a perfect mother,
But I want you to think I am.
And so I dress my kids neat and pretty
With (hopefully) no snotty noses or dirty hair.

I know I’m not a perfect woman,
But I want you to think I am.
And so I put on make up and fix my hair
With (hopefully) no dandruff showing.

I know I’m not a perfect person,
But I want you to think I am.
And so I get up each morning and put on my mask
And (hopefully) you can’t see the real me.
I hope you do see through it all.
And actually…
I hope you see that I’m not perfect.
I never will be.
And hopefully you’re ok with that.
Because I’m still learning to be ok with it myself.
(And not worry about what you think.)


Originally posted September 21 of last year.


Just when I think I’ve got it all ironed out, somebody shifts and it all gets wrinkled again.

“I’ve finally got a handle on this”, I think.
And then whoops!
I forgot about this or that or that other thing.

Just when I figure out the logistics of who goes where
and when they go there
and how they get there
and what time they need to start,
it all changes.

Such is motherhood, I suppose.
(Or really, such is life.)

Once upon a time, I rolled with the punches.
The ever-changing tide never pulled my feet out from under me.
I stood firm even on shaky shores.
But now?
Now I am juggling so much.
So many humans, so many schedules,
So many wants, needs, ideas, hopes, and dreams.

And I worry…
What if I drop the wrong one?

What if, while trying to wash and clean and tend and plan and prepare,
I forget to look and listen and love?

But the washing and cleaning and tending and mending and planning and prepping –
Isn’t it all done in love?

My soul crashes in and out with the tide, never sure where I’ll hit next.

It all rushes by me, and I gasp for clean air.
I choke on the sea spray, salty and bitter.

I look down at my fingers and find them puckered, and wrinkles taunt me again.


*Linked to Heather’s Just Write.


Some of my biggest failures aren’t the things I did, but the things I didn’t do.
Some of my biggest failures aren’t the thoughts I had, but the thoughts I had and didn’t act upon.
Some of my biggest failures aren’t the words I said, but the ones I didn’t.
Some of my biggest failures catch me off guard and chide: Had you only been paying attention.