Drop An Egg

I wasn’t a toddler, but, I wasn’t an all-knowing teenager, either. Somewhere in between.

My mama and I headed to Cushwa Stadium, home of Thomasville High School football. The field sits across from the National Guard Armory, within walking distance of my Nannie’s boarding house, on College Street.

The Saturday before Easter Sunday.

Hundreds of kids. Thomasville’s Easter Egg Hunt. For the record, it was the only Easter Egg hunt in which I participated. Ever. Eggs as far the eyes could see.

My mother suggested we look “under the stands.” Basket in hand, we headed that way.

She was right! There were so many! My basket was overflowing, and, there were MORE to be gathered.

A much younger child, mom in tow, searched the grass, a few steps behind us. He was on the verge of tears, as there were no eggs left. (I had proudly gathered all within reach!)

Margaret Griffin leaned in my direction and whispered, “drop an egg.”

“What?!?!?!”

“Drop. An. Egg.” Spoken like only a mother who is not going to say it again, can say it.

I knew what she meant. “Drop an egg” didn’t mean “ONE” egg. I begrudgingly knocked a few out of my basket and waddled onward, completely outdone and bitter with my lot in life.

I’ve thought about that moment a thousand times. Nay. A thousand times ten thousand.

What’s enough? Where is the line? The intersection of abundance and greed is shrouded in shades of gray.

Age and maturity and life experience make all things clear, right?

There are no road signs alongside the highway through adulthood. If there are, I ain’t found ’em.

I spoil our children. There is little I wouldn’t do for Sophia and Miles. I expect them to win every game. Earn every honor. Capture every title.

My feelings are hurt when my bouncing baby boy isn’t the first one chosen for the church camp kickball game.

I’m exasperated and irritated when my little girl comes up short in the Student Council election.

To be fair, we have celebrated more than our share of victories. A lot of things go our way. We’re fortunate. We’re blessed. Depending on where we are in the grocery line, we’re blessed and highly favored.

Then… there are days I forget the good times.

Sophia applied for an internship with USA Field Hockey. She didn’t get it.

Miles’ first lacrosse season ended with an undefeated record and a promotion to the varsity squad for the postseason run. Not a mention at the end-of-year team banquet. Not a letter. Not a plaque. Nothing.

Sophia submitted an application for an internship with the Comprehensive Cancer Center at Atrium Health Wake Forest Baptist. Nope. Not this time.

Miles interviewed to be the Speaker Of the Forum with the Youth and Government program. He was not chosen.

Reagan High School hosts a special gathering each spring, for which each teacher selects one student that has gone above and beyond, to be honored and celebrated. The best of the best. Sophia Griffin’s name was not on the program. Left out.

President-Elect of the French Honor Society? No. Solo at the spring concert? Not hardly. Summer job at the pool? Nothing yet. Youth Advisory Council? Not now.

Our children have applied for the Disney Dreamers Academy. Twice. Each. That’s four times. Four! I read their applications. The essays were spectacular. I proofread everything. Their (OUR) efforts don’t merit the courtesy of a response from the folks wearing mouse ears. We read about the kids that were chosen on a social media post.

“Hey! What is wrong with the world? Why didn’t you choose mine? My kid?”

It’s uncomfortable to read, “no.” Silence is hard to hear. You reject them? You reject me.

They handle it much better than I do. They carry on.

It makes me want to throw up when Sophia says, “it’s fine.” Miles looks up from his busy work of being on the phone and asks, “what?”

“You lost. You didn’t get it.” We’re NOT on the other side of the velvet ropes.

Jeffrey, you’re being selfish. Jeffrey, you’re being greedy. Yeah, well…

Don’t pat me on the back. Don’t attempt to console. Do not offer the ol’ “next time” pep talk. I loathe that.

When the day is done and the world is quiet, I think.

“Jeffrey, do you REALLY think you’re supposed to get EVERYTHING?”

I’m gonna break a coffee cup if somebody says, “Babe Ruth had more strikeouts…” or “Jordan didn’t make every shot…”

“Yeah. Yes. I do. I admit it. I want our children to win every game. Earn every honor. Capture every title. Yes. Yes. Yes. I don’t feel compelled to apologize.”

In the silence, I hear God take a deep breath, getting ready to speak like only a parent who is not going to say it again, can say it.

“Drop an egg.”

That little boy searching the grass, beneath the stands in Cushwa Stadium… He found the eggs so unceremoniously evicted from my Easter basket. He was thrilled. He shrieked with delight. His laughter filled the air.

A thousand times ten thousand times plus one.

Maybe – MAYBE – not getting it, isn’t the end of the world. Perhaps being left off the list is God’s way of doing what God does. Could not being chosen actually be the best thing, after all?

I guess. It’s possible.

I was bitter when my mama whispered it. I don’t like it much, now.

Drop an egg.

I’m still waiting for one of those mythological road signs because, clearly, I have much to learn.