Eggs

This summer, this age, this moment in my life, its all about eggs.

Eggs that come in a tidy brown shelled package, wood shavings clinging to the still warm calcium carbonate, ready to make into the endless stream of baked french toast, frittatas, roasted potatoes, and scones produced in my oven. The chickens down the road are trying to keep up with our demands, but even with opera and show tunes sung daily to their tiny and apparently discerning ears, the little ladies can only do so much. And almost every weekend I still forget to check our stash and send J sleepy eyed and hungry to go find eggs- down the street, at the farm, at the store (if its even open). He usually succeeds, but the panic still sets in around 7:30-almost-breakfast-at-eight.

I'm always worrying about having enough eggs.

Which brings us to the other eggs. And now we're talking about the other "oven."
Mothers calm down. There is definitely not that kind of stewing, fermenting, baking going on in there.
But I think about it. And lately the island has been abuzz with squinting little faces, chubby pink hands, teensy shirts on teensy bodies.
I think about it more and more as my 31 and a half years crawl into 32.
Seeing those adorable cherubic faces turned up at loving and patient parents and babbling away, most of the time I think, "Geesh, that's a lot of work. I wonder if it's different if its yours, cause man, I'm exhausted just listening/watching/participating in the endless banter."
Then I see a dad and daughter laughing in a grassy field or a young mom scooping up a little body and kissing his smiling face as he squeals with delight and I think hmmm...could be nice.

It's sappy, yes I know. It is. But it is also biological and as I flip and fill omelets and baby our guests with chocolaty treats and clean linens, it all seems relevant. I could get a job anywhere in the world with these skills. We could crew yachts again, manage hostels or inns, freelance the globe. But where does a kid fit into any of this?
Or should it be the other way around?

It all comes down to eggs.
And at this point, its unclear in which basket mine will end up.