How to Perfectly Time a Soft Boiled Egg

Workday mornings are busy, not a minute to spare. Daniel and I have it down to a science. I know things aren't going to go well if Daniel's not eating breakfast by 6:40am. But routine gets boring, very boring.

Monday morning: 6:09am ugh - must get out of bed - ahhhh shower - beginning to wake up. 6:33am. Start making hot buttered toast as usual for Daniel. Slight change in plan today, he wants a soft boiled egg in his goose egg cup. I think to myself "no problem, just a couple of extra minutes." Pot of water on stove - c'mon boil... "Daniel, can you get the eggs out of the fridge please." I dig through the kitchen shrapnel jug looking for the pin to prick the bottom of the egg. Oh no, it's 6:45! "Sorry Daniel, just buttered toast today, we'll try again tomorrow."

Tuesday morning: 6:05am - wake up - get dressed - stagger into kitchen. At 6:30 I've got the water on to boil when Daniel makes his appearance. "Why did you poke a hole in the egg" he asks as I gently drop the egg into the water. Lengthy explanation while making his lunch. The timer yells at me "Beep-beep beeeeeeep!" The egg is done; where's his toast? My heart sinks as I realise that I've forgotten to make his toast. It is 6:43am, far too late to begin making toast. "Sorry Daniel, looks like you're having cereal today. Eat quickly Sweetheart, we're running late."

Wednesday morning: 6:06am - usual morning routine - drag myself into kitchen for effort #3. Boil water, prick egg, toast bread. I'm getting the hang of this! I've almost finished making his lunch, just need to get his water and school snack ready. What has been my problem all week? This isn't so difficult. Beep-beep beeeeeeep! The timer's yelling at me again. Quick! Run egg under cold water for a few moments. Tap-tap-tap. "...just need to take the top off Love, take your toast to the table, I'll be right there." Tap-tap-CRUNCH! I've dropped the d***ed egg into the sink. Defeated yet again.

Thursday morning: 6:03am - oh my head hurts - think I've caught Daryle's cold. 6:30am and Daniel's standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on his hips, telling me he's going to make the egg himself. "Fill your boots child, make one for me while you're at it" says my cranky inner voice. He drags the stool over to the sink and fills the pot. I put the pot on the stove - heat as high as I can crank it. We prick two eggs today. Who knows, maybe hell will freeze over and we'll both have an egg with toast. Daniel pops two slices of bread into the toaster. Just as the *%$^# timer screams "Beep-beep beeeeeeep!" the toast pops up. While Daniel butters the toast, I cool the eggs, remove the top of one and peel the other. Plates and egg cup on table, something to drink, sit down and tuck into breakfast! Success!!! Teamwork, why didn't I think of that sooner?

I feel great now, like I've conquered something. Daniel's expression of delight is fantastic. We're a team, we can do anything. I begin to plot our next conquest; perhaps we'll try to make a bit of bacon...

"Mom, I think, maybe, I don't want an egg now." he says, peering down into the egg.

^%*@!

Mr. Funny's Untimely Demise

For many years I’ve treasured a small Mr. Funny mug, given to me when I was a child. It has travelled with me from home to home, sometimes tucked away at the back of a cupboard, sometimes front and center. I was so pleased to pass Mr. Funny along to Daniel when he was three. I smiled every time he used it; it was quite wonderful to see Daniel enjoy the mug so much. If given the choice between Mr. Funny and any other mug, he always chose Mr. Funny.

“May I have some more water please?” Daniel asked.

“Hold your mug still – here you go.”

S M A S H ! ! ! Between the two of us we’d knocked Mr. Funny to the floor; obliterated into hundreds of teeny tiny pieces. Gone. Forever. Daniel burst into tears and began trying to pick up the pieces.

“Daniel, go sit at the table, I need to clean this up. It’s okay, honey, I’m not cross.”

“Mommy, please can you buy another one?”

“Sorry pumpkin, they don’t make them anymore.”

I began sweeping up the shards. Definitely nothing retrievable: neither the teapot house on the back nor Mr. Funny’s picture on the front. Daniel tried everything he could think of to avoid Mr. Funny’s inevitable trip to the garbage can. Could we put him back together? Could we put him in a baggie? In a final desperate plea, Daniel asked for Mr. Funny to be recycled instead of being thrown away. I suppose he realized that if recycled, Mr. Funny would somehow have carried on.

Daniel sobbed for the dear friend he’d lost. I’d never seen him so heartbroken. We sat together and cuddled. We cuddled for a very long time while he wept. Daniel repeatedly asked for another Mr. Funny mug. This might have been the first thing for which he’d felt a sense of loss.

I hadn’t promised Daniel that we’d replace his mug, but over the next few days I tried to locate one anyway. Nothing. Well, except the for £40 mug for sale on eBay in England, shown in the photo above. Sorry kiddo, but once that mug had been shipped to Canada and duties and freight paid in addition to the original price, this particular Mr. Funny mug just wasn’t in the budget.

My heart broke to witness Daniel's grief. Every day for a couple of weeks after “the accident” he asked for Mr. Funny. Every day I told him that “No Sweetie, Mr. Funny is broken, we don’t have him anymore.”

Although saddened that the Mr. Funny mug is gone, I am pleased that Daniel loved it so much before its demise. I’ve always felt that beautiful or sentimental items with a specific function should be enjoyed while serving that purpose. As Alfred Lord Tennyson so eloquently puts it ‘tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Who's Difficult to Buy For?

Hints have been dropped that I'm a difficult person to buy a Christmas present for. I don't know why though - I enjoy so many different things: gardening, music, film, the arts, scrap booking, and so on. This year, in view of my passion for all things yardwork related, I thought something useful like a small wood chipper or leaf blower would be nice. However, considering my history with anything even remotely mechanical - perhaps they're not such good ideas. You be the judge.

My latest equipment altercation involved our weed eater. With Daryle busy working on levelling our deck I wanted to attack the weeds that were threatening to take over my back yard. "Really dear, I can handle it, can't be any more difficult than our small chainsaw or hedge trimmer." Both of which I've operated uneventfully with good results. Daryle got me set up: steel-toed wellies, eye protection, work gloves, earplugs, topped up the fuel and showed me how to dispense more twine. He didn't show me how to turn it off though...

Soon weed corpses and small chunks of earth were strewn all over the place. HA! What power, what a racket, what fun! What vibration... what numbness in my arms and hands... The massacre over, I needed to turn off the weed eater, great machine of destruction that it was. Daryle was nowhere in sight to help. Good - I like to deal with things on my own. If only I knew where the "off switch" was. Surely this beast had one. Let's see, they're usually red, hmm. Oh, way back there, near the motor of course (blond moment - it soon passed). Now how on earth was I supposed to get to it? My hands were quite literally locked in place: one supported the weight of the weed eater while holding the throttle and the other hand had a death-grip on the 'steering' handle. The machine stuttered and the vibrations became even worse when the throttle was released. After a bit of repositioning, my right hand was free to turn the switch off. Easy, right? Not so much. My hand was so numb I couldn't hold my finger stiffly enough to flick the switch. At this point I was hoping that it would just run out of fuel and starve itself into silence. Couldn't put the damned thing down either, not with that whippy thing at its business end winging about. How humiliating. Finally, after several attempts, I managed to turn it off. Sigh of relief, at least now I could put it down and let some feeling return to my arms and hands. Not my best work with yard equipment.

However the weed eater episode wasn't my worst machine experience. Not by a long shot. At least nothing had been harmed, aside from my ego and the weeds of course. When we lived at a condo in Guildford I was thrilled to have a dishwasher for the first time. Ooooo... I was able to wash everything! I left the machine running on a special load of things like toothbrushes, hairbrushes and gungy soap dishes and dispensers. Off I went to meet my sister to run some errands. Upon returning, we found the new maple-laminate hardwood kitchen floor deeply covered in soap suds and water. Guess the gungy soap dispenser still had some soap in it - oops! Frantically we mopped up the water and suds, but we were too late. The damage had been done - the laminate had warped and the edges had risen slightly. After the floor had dried a darkish stain remained at all the joints.

Now, I've covered off two natural elements: earth with the weed eater and water with the dishwasher. How about fire? I'm sure I have a fire story. Ah, yes, the Coleman stove adventure. While camping in the Salmon Arm area a year or two ago, I decided to heat up some water to make hot chocolate on a slightly chilly evening. Pretty simple: light stove, put kettle of water on stove, wait. Man, that kettle was taking a terribly long time to boil. Oh dear, the flame had gone out. I re-lit the flame without thinking. Whoooosh! Our little camp stove instantly turned into a fireball! Yikes. I quickly removed the fuel tank so that I wouldn't have an explosion on my hands in addition to my already singed bangs and burnt kettle handle. Removing the fuel tank had the added benefit of removing any further source of fuel for the fire. After a few minutes the fire went out and I carried on making the hot chocolate. Daniel's "Is the hot chocolate ready Mommy?" replied with "I'll be right there love, just give me a moment to trim off the burnt bits of hair from my bangs."

These three instances are good examples of why I should never, never be left alone or in charge of a piece of equipment, let alone given one as a present. If I haven't convinced you yet, I have more proof. How about the time I accidentally poured hot tea into a business calculator at work or the time I inadvertently filled the bread maker with water instead of putting the water into the bread loaf pan. Past gifts of a glue gun, power stapler and electric sander have each had rather eventful lives and I'll never forget the times my red Volkswagen Rabbit would repeatedly stall all the way up the Alex Fraser Bridge (water in the gas tank is a very bad thing, especially when it freezes during a cold spell).

I'm beginning to see why I'm difficult to buy for. Those who know me, understand that I'm challenged when it comes to operating just about ANYTHING. Challenged, yet I have a burning desire to try everything. For everyone's well being, I'm now hoping they choose something flame-resistant, un-motorised and with no moving bits. At least the odds of hurting myself or others will be greatly reduced. Can you imagine what fun, er, trouble I'd get into with a wood chipper?

October's Child

We sit together, holding hands, trying to absorb what the doctor and nurse are trying to explain to us. Together, yet feeling so alone. Our unborn baby had been syndactylous, which according to the dictionary "is a condition where two or more digits are fused together." They explained further that he also had severely bowed legs and that his thumbs were located closer to his wrists than they should have been.

I'm numb: I hear voices, see their lips moving, watch the diagrams being drawn on paper, but not much is getting through to me.

A few months ago we felt so alive, everything around us was full of promise. Daryle and I were pregnant!!! So thrilled - this after several years of efforts to convince Daryle to try for another little one. We'd already been blessed with a son and I'd been wanting another child to complete our family. After many discussions Daryle and I agreed to try for #2.

I was so excited about the baby that I began collecting all the necessary bits early. Boxes that had been packed away with Daniel's baby things were brought out and sorted through and I hunted down a bottle warmer, swing, some maternity clothes and a baby bath. An October baby - how wonderful! Everything would go smoothly this time - I was determined. Determined to be strong, determined to focus on my family, determined to do my job well, determined that the doctors would have to prove that something was wrong with the baby before I'd believe it.

Bringing Daniel into the world had been a stressful experience. In addition to my own combination of typical pregnancy trials and tribulations, Daniel had been diagnosed with a 'lemon-shaped skull'. After further testing it was determined that he was just fine - nothing a hat wouldn't cure. He's now 5 years old and handsome, happy, healthy and intelligent. Hence my determination this time around to wait for proof that something was wrong before getting upset.

This mindset allowed me to remain a little emotionally distant, or so I thought. I tried to prepare for the worst while hoping for the best. Every night I prayed. As usual I would say the Lord's Prayer, then I asked for God to bless us with a healthy child, take the baby to heaven early if there was something terribly amiss and to give me the strength to deal with what He saw fit to give me.

Meanwhile, I found Joan, my wonderful doctor that had seen me through the trying times when carrying and delivering Daniel. Daryle, Daniel and I met with her and her team of nurses and midwives a few times, had the usual tests done and things seemed to be progressing well.

So far I had felt nauseous, endured painful tenderness, craved all things peanut-butter, soared then sunk with mood swings and my belly had begun to grow just a little bit. Joy. My happiness wasn't dampened by a bit of spotting. I called Joan and she said to wait and see what happened, might be nothing to worry about. The spotting continued though, accompanied by a little cramping. Nothing wrong, just my old bod getting used to the little one nestling in, nothing at all to worry about.

The next day, Thursday, Dr. Joan thought it would be wise to come to the office to check that things were okay. Off I went, certain that things were just fine. One of the midwives checked for a heartbeat - its absence was troubling. A viability ultrasound was scheduled for the next morning. Viability? Anger set in, how dare they tell me whether or not my baby was viable, of course it was.

My determination remained strong right through the viability ultrasound. The chatty technician had become increasingly silent as the ultrasound progressed, then I was left alone for quite some time while she discussed the results with others. I was told to go home and wait for a phone call from my doctor. My determination was shattered - I sobbed almost the entire way home. As I approached the Queensborough bridge my cellphone rang. Hi Joan, please call me back at my home number in ten minutes. I can't talk about this while driving. Please.

Ten minutes is a long time to wait. Making it through the front door at about the five minute mark, I collapsed on the rug. On my knees in despair, then staggering about the house, sobbing. I couldn't contain my despair. I managed to speak a few words when Joan called back, but the tears weren't far below the surface. She was compassionate, caring and empathetic to what I was going through. Daryle and I lay on our bed and held each other when he came home. Fortunately, Daniel was staying in Gibson's with my parents so we didn't have to worry about how to break the news to him. Not yet. We shared our grief and spent a lot of time alone together talking and hugging, leaning on each other.

While miscarriages don't happen according to schedules, hospitals run on them. We had to wait until Monday for the D&C. Everyone at BC Women & Children's Hospital were all very professional, polite and compassionate. They must see a lot of couples like us come through the doors. The doctor that performed the D&C was able to save the remains for analysis. I was hoping to find some answers to my questions of what had gone wrong. Maybe this outcome could be prevented next time.

A few weeks later another phone call. I braced myself to hear the results. Tests had revealed that our little boy had genetic defects that had prevented him from developing normally. Yes, we would like to attend genetic counselling.

Why I decided to attend the genetic counselling, I'll never know. God had taken my baby just as I had prayed for and He had given me the strength to deal with it. I really don't need to hear about recessive genes and the possible reasons for the genes becoming damaged in the first place.

So here we are, sitting together, numb to the core. Together, together. The word "together" echoes in my thoughts. Together. Something to be thankful for. We still have each other. We will move on - together.