How to make an egg sandwich.

I got up a little early. Found the carton of eggs from the fridge and lit the heat under a tiny little egg pan. I put the little finger rolls in the oven to toast while I scooped coffee beans into the pot.

Eggs cracked and fried, two by two.

My coffee made the little spitting sputtering noise beside me, telling me I could warm my insides as I prepared their breakfast. Cream in the mug. Rolls out of the oven.

Then each little roll was split down the middle and spread with mayo. The eggs were topped with cheese.

The first sleepy head with the crazy man-bun dreaded from wild sleep wanders in.

"Would you like an egg sandwich?"

"No. I would like two please."

The mess was huge. The kitchen covered in the story of our morning. The bathroom was occupied by the one learning to put contacts in. Two of the boys were trying to get computer time by playing math games. Where are my shoes? Can I eat my sandwich in the car? Can I have another one? It doesn't make sense to brush teeth in the mornings. 

I get the lunches together and I am warm and pulled in so many directions while just trying to breathe through and get them all out the door on time. Hopefully with shoes on both feet.

And eight little egg sandwiches later. 

I walk into the kitchen 2 hours after leaving to do the drop offs to school and it is warm from the sun peeking in the glass door. The shells from the eggs piled high in a bowl waiting for the compost bin. 

The next hour will be spent cleaning up from the story we are living together. For just this one moment I need to remember my why. Why the egg sandwiches are how I love. Why waking up early for my coffee is like meditation space. Why being mama is the millionth time I clean up the crumbs and fill the dishwasher and find the lost socks and crack the eggs as it all goes unseen, but felt in the ritual of the story I am searching to catch and put into words.

I move every part of the mess to the left and to the right of the bowl of eggshells. The white of the counter glows. Reminding me of the clean space I will have soon.

I frame the bowl in my lens and grab my why in a photo, in a blink of time where I will remember the little egg sandwiches in this beautiful kitchen in the urban farmhouse. 

My movements return to the cleaning, the wiping, the rinsing, the placing of mixed matched plates back in their space on the shelf. My why. The eggshells. The way I love. The way mothering is my heart and really hard work. I joke with him on the hard days that I am asking for a raise. He always gives me one. His adoration for me clear in how he loves, inside of his why.


I wander back into the kitchen as I hear him talking on his call. 

"OK, but those are feelings, not numbers."

I try to not laugh out loud. Our lives intersecting are so perfect. He is numbers. I am feelings. I am the early waking with the coffee mug and cracking the eggs. He is the one who infuses us with fun and safety. We are living our whys inside this story.

The clean kitchen waiting for the explosion when they walk through the door. The pumpkins muffins we'll make. Covering the white countertops in gluten-free flours and more eggshells. Continuing to go unseen but feeling why.