Grand Eggs

I’ve had an insight into grand parenting this week. 

Don’t worry, my kids aren’t early breeders – I’ve become a nana to two eggs and they’re the kind that crack and yolk comes out.

The twins came hurtling out of their class room on Monday afternoon brandishing a container each with a decorated raw egg nestling – or rather, rocking - inside.

“Mum, we have to look after these eggs until the end of the week and it’s a competition to see who doesn’t break theirs!” they both cried at once.

“Is this to teach you what it’s like to have a baby?” I asked and they nodded.

This was starting them early – wasn’t this a tactic employed by high schools as a form of contraception? But their teacher reassured it was a result of reading The Little Red Hen that day, as well as being topical because, with the kids following their beloved teacher’s first pregnancy with great anticipation, they all have babies on the mind.

“What have you named them?” I asked. 

“Mr Egg,” replied Master Five.

“Mrs Egg,” replied Miss Five.

Gosh, how original, I thought as I noticed their class mates filing past clutching containers labeled with the same name.

“Here you go mum!” I had two eggs thrust in my direction before the twins took off home on their scooters, leaving me – in my new-found nana status – to follow behind with their babies.

Back home it was the usual afternoon tea – dinner – homework - make lunches – bathing - madness.

“Mum you have to stop shouting – my egg’s asleep,” reprimanded Master Five, the loudest one of them all.

“But you’ve been shouting all afternoon,” I responded.

“My egg wasn’t asleep then, he was just resting.”

The next day the twins emerged from class and informed me that four eggs had cracked and one was the result of a class mate’s older brother dropping it on the step, before stamping on it making the yolk slither to the bottom of the stairs. 

Master Eight got a gleam in his eye at that.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.

As a big-brother deterrent, although the reasoning is still unclear, they both put their eggs up high on the window sill that night.

By day three there were more broken eggs and some kids had left their babies at home without a babysitter.

I’ve often questioned Miss Five’s ‘mothering’ skills with the way she’s looked after her baby doll that she’s had since aged one. It once got left in a paddock at Taipa in the rain for weeks before she missed it.

But I’m happy to say that, as I write this on Wednesday night, my ‘grand eggs’ are still intact.

There’s hope for my future grand children yet.